


Screwing Up

by IrelandSpades



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-09-24
Updated: 2014-09-30
Packaged: 2018-02-18 14:04:13
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 7
Words: 65,403
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2351057
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/IrelandSpades/pseuds/IrelandSpades
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>When you're screwing up and nobody says anything to you anymore, that means they've given up on you. John has stopped saying anything. Collection of Sherlock trying to be better.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Screwing Up

“When you’re screwing up and nobody says anything to you anymore, that means they’ve given up on you.”

 

Sherlock shot an annoyed look at Donovan as he walked past her on his way to the crime scene. John apologized and made small talk to Donovan to make up for the lack of it from Sherlock. He hadn’t yet figured out why John made the effort to smooth over the rough edges that Sherlock left. He had always done it. Even now that they had been flatmates for three years and in a relationship for three months. He had seemed to be doing it more the past week. Correcting Sherlock when he insulted individuals. Trying to get Sherlock to think of the other people’s feelings before calling them idiots. Trying to prevent him from vocalizing bad deductions about random people. It wasn’t like being nice mattered to the work. Lestrade was the only one that really mattered and that was just because he provided Sherlock was cases; active and cold. And getting criminals off the streets; that was obviously important.

He walked slowly through the entry hall and glanced through the stack of mail dropped on the entry table. He took the long way around the apartment and looked at the overall environment before moving towards the living room where the body was. Sherlock rolled his eyes as John greeted Lestrade and they started talking about a recent football game. John tried so hard to keep up a good relationship with New Scotland Yard. He was always giving Sherlock pointed looks whenever the consulting detective snapped at Mycroft and Lestrade or other moronic individuals. Always trying to impress the social norms that dictated how everyone lived their lives. Impress the same social norms that inhibited real logic and intelligence.

He snorted quietly and continued to look over the dead body. The dead man was hanging from a hemp rope from a low beam. No abrasions on his wrists to indicate he was bound and held in place. Chair knocked over behind him from where he knocked it over during his struggles. No signs of struggle in the apartment indicating a struggle. Something was missing. Something was just wrong. His eyes saw it but his brain couldn’t understand it. His magnificent brain could read the signals that his eyes was sending to you. It rarely happened but sadly it did. He silently groaned upon recognizing the tread of the individual coming up behind John and Lestrade. He had hoped Anderson was still on vacation. Apparently hope was not on his side. He heard John say something to Anderson about his father but immediately deleted it as sentimental.

“Obvious suicide. He was just diagnosed with cancer. He even left a note. Not worth your most valuable time,” Anderson sneered and snapped off his gloves.

“Your incompetence is outstanding, Anderson, but today it’s just beyond words. This was a well thought out murder. I almost missed it but the odor from that new medicated cream you’re using distracted me for a moment,” Sherlock said and moved away from the body to look at the chair.

Anderson flared red in fury and he moved towards Sherlock before Lestrade stepped in his way.

“Sherlock,” John warned and Sherlock just waved a dismissive hand at the former army doctor.

“Signs that it wasn’t a suicide. A fully stocked fridge and pantry. Appointments made for next week. People planning on committing suicide do not make doctor arrangements. The ones planning on fighting to live are the ones that make doctor appointments. Not ones planning suicide. Lack of scuff marks on the shoes, which is not in itself odd but the heel edge of the sole is recently worn down indicating that he was dragged over here. Shoes also have faint scent of shoes polish. Again, someone who was planning on suicide doesn’t polish his shoes. And the biggest sign is.”

Sherlock picked up the chair from the floor and pushed it under the hanging body. There was a good three inches between the tips of the dead man’s toes and the seat of the chair. The three other men stared at the chair and body in silence before John spoke.

“How was he able to slip the noose around his neck if he had to jump to reach it?”

“And you, Anderson, was about to cut down the body and destroy the most vital piece of evidence proving this was a murder. Thank god your timeliness is just as bad as your investigative work. Your father isn’t dead, he’s hiding from your incompetence. He’s lucky to not be burdened by it,” Sherlock snarled in anger.

It was silent in the room but it wasn’t the usual silence that occurred after a sharp retort from Sherlock. Anderson actually looked...blank. Lestrade looked horrified. Sherlock held his breath, waiting for John’s words of reprimand. He realized what he just said was a bit not good. Sadly, a lot of times, he realized that fact just after the words escape from his mouth. Correct that, the words didn’t escape, he knew exactly what he was saying. Sherlock Holmes didn’t say things that he didn’t intend to say. But usually, he doesn’t realize how damaging those words were until they were thrown out in the open and then he couldn’t pull them back. John was there to censor; or at least, try to censor him. He deferred to John on all of the social and emotional niceties.

He slowly turned and looked at John. The nice, affable doctor was staring at Sherlock with something in his eyes. Something Sherlock had never seen before. He cast about in his vocabulary of emotional and sentimental words and finally settled on one. Disappointment was the main one. Sadness was another. But disappointment was big. Defeat was also there. Defeat and disappointment were prominent. Also resignation. Why resignation? Sherlock ran through his memory of the past ten minutes and searched for why John would look resigned. All this ran through Sherlock’s mind in less than a heartbeat as he stared at John. The consulting detective was still waiting for the reprimand and mentally cringed from how bad it was going to be.

The next thirty-seven seconds would be forever burned into Sherlock’s memory bank despite his numerous attempts to delete it. John silently sighed but Sherlock saw the slight shift in his shoulders that the action caused. Without speaking a word, his gaze slid away from Sherlock’s and he walked out of the room. Everyone stared after John and Sherlock felt a cold knot of fear nestle in his chest when John didn’t glance back to see if Sherlock was following. John had never not corrected Sherlock’s bad manners. Sherlock was frozen in his place as he watched John walk away. It took a few moments before the action registered in Sherlock’s mind and panic suddenly clouded his mind. He knew instinctively, without knowing exactly why or what, that something dramatic had shifted in their relationship.

“Anderson, I apologize for my words. They were cruel and I am sorry,” Sherlock said without looking at Anderson and quickly went after John.

The long legged consulting detective ran after his flat mate. He ignored Donovan when he stepped out of the apartment building and frantically looked around for the short Doctor. There were no blond haired men on the streets that matched his friend’s description.

“Hey Freak, finally managed to scare off Dr. Watson? He looked broken when he left here. Said something about being tired of trying. Amazed he lasted this long,” she commented and looked up in shock when Sherlock crowded her against the door.

“Which way did he go?”

Donovan stepped back in surprise at the expression on Sherlock’s face. She motioned down the road to the right and blinked to see Sherlock running down the street. Sherlock darted between pedestrians and frantically looked for John. He couldn’t have walked this far.

Unless he was purposely avoiding Sherlock.

That realization struck Sherlock hard as he staggered to a halt three blocks away from the apartment building. There was no John. Sherlock sagged weakly against the light post in defeat. A door opened behind him and he heard the distinct sounds of glassware from a pub. A thought suddenly struck him. John liked his pints. Maybe he stepped in to get a drink. Anything was possible. Sherlock entered the pub and started looking around in hope that he would see John. It took him only a minute before he realized he wasn’t in here. He might have passed a few other pubs he could have stepped in. He had to acknowledge that he wouldn't find the Doctor. Leaning against the bar, he sighed and dropped his gaze to the bar top. The nearby conversation between a patron the barkeep intruded on his inner musings.

“What’s bothering you, Michael? You’ve been in here for the past three nights. What’s going on?”

The patron sighed and slowly turned his pint in a circle. “Carol left me.”

The barkeep muttered apologies but didn’t act like it was a surprise. “Did she say why?”

“She was tired of listening to me complain about my job. It’s a difficult job; of course I’m going to complain about it.”

“What about getting a new one? Wasn’t she urging you to change jobs? You mentioned a month ago that she gave you some job postings she found. What ever happened from that?” the barkeep asked as he braced himself against the back of the bar.

“Yeah, she was suggestions some other jobs and even suggested I go back to university.”

The two were silent and Sherlock was about to leave but something told him to wait it out. It wasn’t like he had anywhere to go.

“When did she stop making those suggestions?”

The barkeep asked softly and raised an eyebrow.

“A week or two ago. Why?”

The barkeep pushed away from his position and leaned on his elbows to look closely at Michael. “Then Carol gave up on you a week or two ago. I’ve found that when you’re screwing up and nobody says anything to you anymore, that means they’ve given up on you. She gave up on you a week or two ago.”

Michael stared into his beer in silence. Sherlock sagged heavily against the edge of the bar and slowly lowered himself onto the stool. John had given up on him. John was going to leave him. That was the only logical assumption if what happened to Michael was any example. John was tired of trying to fix Sherlock. Tired of fixing his screwups. John made Sherlock better. Sherlock didn’t want to verbally admit it but John had changed him. Made him work harder and just be better. He knew he wasn’t the easiest to live with or deal with. He was argumentative, degrading, stubborn and just overall difficult in every possible category. Sherlock couldn’t think of any situation or scenario that he was easy. Why did John stay with him? Why would he? Sherlock was the least likeable flatmate London has ever seen.

“So, what do I do? How do I solve this?”

Michael looked broken. He realized he had screwed up and possibly lost the best thing in his life. Now his only concern was fixing this. Sherlock listened closely for the barkeep’s suggestions.

“Michael, the best thing that I can say is show that you are willing to change. A bad partner tries to change you. A good partner wants to change for you. And just pray that it’s not too late.”

Sherlock mentally distances himself from the conversation as he starts to slowly walk back home. How can he change for John? His mind started listing everything that John found annoying about him. Experiments in the kitchen and fridge. Rude comments to girl friends. Rude comments to Mycroft. Rude comments to friends. Rude comments to everyone, Sherlock mused sourly. Shooting at the wall. Using John’s laptop without permission. Late night violin playing. Leaving John out of the loop on some topics. Performing experiments on John with and without his knowledge.

The list was endless by the time he reached the door of 221B Baker Street. He put his key into the lock and felt the tumblers shift before he paused with his gaze on the his gloved hand holding the key. With a weary sigh, he leaned forward and let his head bump against the door. Would John be at home? Questionable. It could go both ways. John could have come home to a familiar environment for a cup of tea to sooth his temper. Or he could have avoided everything that reminded him of Sherlock and his failure. Sherlock knew he could lean back to look at the windows of the flat and probably easily deduce if John was at home or not but suddenly he just lacked the energy. His mind went whirling through memories of his time before John entered his life. The time alone with nothing but his violin, experiments and the work to keep him busy. How every night he could hear the siren call of his old friend tempting him back down that road. The road that led to ultimate self destruction. That siren call was closer now than it had been for years. Ever since John had moved in and Sherlock realized he had a best friend, John had kept the siren song at bay. He filled it with laughter at murder scenes, offers for tea and gentle lectures to eat and sleep. Sherlock had never realized how sane John kept him.

Feeling the cold start to seep through his jacket, Sherlock turned the key and pushed open the door. It was quiet when he closed the door behind him. Mrs. Hudson must be off somewhere. He walked up the stairs slowly and hesitated before opening the door to their flat. It took him a half second to realize that John was not there and had not been since they left that morning. He was definitely avoiding Sherlock now. Sherlock pulled out his phone and opened the text app.

John, I’m sorry. Please come home.-SH

Sherlock set his mobile down on the coffee table and started to pull his jacket, scarf and gloves off. He hung the pieces of clothing by the door. Also taking off his suit coat, he tossed it over to his chair and rolled his shoulders. He stubbornly refused to look at the phone but listened closely for the text alert chime. He wandered into the kitchen and sat on the stool to look at the experiment he had set up. He started to work on it but eventually stopped. Sighing, he looked around the kitchen and spotted the small stack of dirty dishes in the sink. They had ordered Chinese the night before to celebrate after the close of an exciting case. They had laughed and joked about the suspect’s attempts to flee when Sherlock, John and Lestrade had shown up at his door. With a weak smirk at the memory, Sherlock stood and started washing the dishes. He could start trying to fix one thing on his list. Start cleaning up after himself in the kitchen. Once he finished with the dishes, he started to break down the experiment he had running and put away the equipment once cleaning it. Once finishing that, he wandered out to the living room and looked at his mobile. He had heard no alert chime. He confirmed what he already knew; no reply text from John. He started to send another text.

I apologized to Anderson for what I said. Will you please come home?-SH

He set the phone down again and went to the desk. Mindlessly, he started to sift through the papers and organize them by cases. Filing everything away, he picked up a rag from the kitchen and started wiping everything down. He eventually came across his almost full box of nicotine patches. Staring at the box for a few moments, he slowly opened the lid and ran his thumb over the top of the patches.  His jaw muscles flexed a moment before he walked to the trash bin and threw them in with more force than what was really necessary but it made him feel slightly better. After finishing the living room he moved onto to their shared bedroom. Tossing the few pieces of clothing that he found into the hamper, he cleaned and tried not to think of sleeping alone in his bed again. He continued cleaning the flat and had finished before he finally acknowledged that John was not going to reply to him. He knew he could easily have called Mycroft and have him track John’s mobile but he knew that wouldn’t be good. Picking up his mobile again, he typed a new message.

Are you safe?-SH

This time he held the phone and waited. He knew John. He knew that the doctor would see the concern and resignation. All Sherlock wanted was to know that John was safe and would hold back everything else he wanted to say. The mobile chimed.

Yes.-JW

Some of his tension slid away and he sighed. He walked over to his violin case and opened it to look at the Stradivarius. His long, delicate fingers trailed over the polished wood before picking up the instrument and bow and walking over to the large windows. Closing his eyes against the pedestrians walking below the window, he started playing. He randomly played pieces of different compositions until it flowed into a composition of his own making. It was heartbreaking and painful; anguished and remorseful. He played until a painful cramp in his forearm ceased all movement. Holding the violin in his good hand, he flexed his fist against the cramp and felt the muscle start to loosen. It was dark outside the windows and he roughly guessed that he had been playing for five hours. He continued to flex his hand as he stepped closer to the window and looked down at the sidewalk. It was raining and had been for a while it seemed. He tilted his head slightly and listened. John was still not home.

Putting away his violin, he wandered into the kitchen and started to make himself a cup of tea. Tea would help; tea solves everything. At least John thinks that tea solves everything. Well every British citizen thinks that. Every problem in the world could be solved with a good cup of tea. It was automatic that he pulled down two mugs. He cradled John’s RAMC mug in his hand before gently placing it on the counter. He prepped the mugs while the kettle boiled.

John would probably be gone by the end of the week. He lived minimally; a throwback from his military times. There wasn’t much to pack. Finding a new flat would take the longest. It also depended on how quickly John wanted to get away from him. He should have expected this. He was shocked when John admitted that he was interested in a relationship with Sherlock. Sherlock was cautious when the relationship had been new but he quickly realized what he had actually been missing. The pleasure of sex and intimacy. Knowing that someone cared. The comfort of touching and being touched. He wasn’t sure how he would be able to go back to life without John. The siren song was climbing in intensity and was about to reach its crescendo.

Releasing a shuddering breath, Sherlock picked up the kettle and started to pour water into the mugs.

“Sherlock.”

Sherlock yelped in shock and spun to look at John. The yelp was quickly followed by a sharp cry as his free hand knocked over the mugs and boiling water splashed over his left hand from the still pouring kettle. The kettle dropped from his hands and crashed onto the floor splattering water over the floor. He cradled the injured limb to his abdomen as he stumbled back against the counter. His teeth were clenched against the searing pain and he squeezed his eyes shut in concentration.

‘Must not scream, must not scream, must not scream,’ his mind recited as he took shallow breaths against the pain.

Words started to filter through the haze of pain.

“Move, Sherlock!”

Sherlock let himself be bodily shifted as John turned on the cold faucet and thrust the detective’s arm under the cold water. Sherlock braced his other hand against the edge and stepped back to roll his back. His head dropped between his shoulders as his arm and shoulder muscles twitched against the pain.

“How are you doing, Sherlock? Talk to me,” John said loudly.

The pain shattered any thoughts of calm and logic. The only things left that his mind could wrap around was the pain and John. Pain and John leaving. New and different pain but pain nonetheless. John leaving. He couldn’t breath against the pain. Pain in his arm and chest. Couldn’t breath.

“John, I’m so sorry. Please don’t leave me. Please don’t give up on me. I’ll be better, I promise. Please don’t leave. Don’t give up on me. I’m sorry, I’m so sorry,” Sherlock gasped as he looked up at his lover.

John’s face retreated down a dark tunnel and Sherlock’s words echoed in his own mind as his legs crumpled underneath him. Darkness would take away the pain. Darkness always took away the pain.

 

~~

 

John gasped and barely caught Sherlock as he collapsed into a long limbed lump. Adrenaline aided John as he bent and slid arms under Sherlock and stood with a grunt. Hurrying to their room, John carefully laid Sherlock down on the bed and moved the injured limb away from his body. He quickly checked to be sure that Sherlock just passed out and there wasn’t anything more nefarious at work. John hurried around the flat and collected his more extensive kit and a few other things before jogging back to their bedroom. Sherlock was still unconscious as John sat next to Sherlock’s hip and lifted the arm to look closer at the burns. Resting the appendage on his lap, John gently rotated the arm and breathed a sigh of relief when he saw the extent of the damage; it was not as bad as he expected. He pushed up Sherlock’s shirt sleeve and looked for any more burns. The injuries were mainly on his hand and forearm. Gently holding the arm, John used his free hand and grabbed the large jar he snatched from the kitchen. Clenching it between his knees, he opened the jar of honey and set aside the lid.

Honey had been used for years as an antibiotic to treat wounds. Bacteria couldn’t grown in it and the chemical properties of the honey promoted healing. John shook out a towel and spread it over his lap. He laid out the items he would need before slipping on a latex glove. Dipping his free hand into the jar, he scooped out a handful of honey and gently smeared it over the burns. Sherlock sighed softly at the cooling sensation and turned his head towards John. John continued his ministrations until all the burns were covered in honey. He picked up a roll of gauze and started to wrap Sherlock’s forearm and palm. Once that was done, he lowered the arm to his lap and wiped his sticky hands clean. Picking up a bandage, he quickly wrapped the bandage over the gauze and was almost done when the arm in his grip twitched.

Looking up to Sherlock’s face, he watched as lids slowly rose to reveal confused grey-blue eyes. His gaze slowly moved around his room before landing on John. John watched as Sherlock’s mind reconstructed everything that led to this point.

“John,” he murmured and swallowed.

“I’m almost done with your arm. I’ll give you some water and paracetamol after and you should rest.”

He finished wrapping the bandage and lifted Sherlock’s arm to put it back on the bed. He collected his supplies and stood to put everything away. Stepping into the kitchen, he filled a glass with water and set it down while collecting a few tablets of paracetamol. He paused and sagged against the counter. Looking around the kitchen, he sighed and set aside the tablets before kneeling and picking up the broken shards of ceramic mugs to throw away. The water had long since cooled and he wadded up paper towels to mop up the spill. There were no sounds coming from the bedroom while John worked. Once the kitchen was clean again, he collected the glass and paracetamol before walking back to the bedroom. Sherlock still was stretched out on the bed but now his good arm was bent up and the heel of his hand was pressed against his forehead.

“Here, take these,” John said and held out the tablets and glass of water.

“How bad are the burns?”

“Mild second degree. It’ll heal within three weeks and leave no scarring. You were lucky,” John replied and gently bumped his knee against the bed to get Sherlock to look at him.

“How bad are we? Are you going to leave me?”

Sherlock lowered his arm and looked up at John. John didn’t say anything. With a sigh, Sherlock sat up and swung his legs over the side of the bed. Accepting the tablets and water, he swallowed them quickly and handed the empty glass back to John. John went to turn and walk out of the bedroom but Sherlock grabbed the hem of his jumper and jerked him back to stand between Sherlock’s knees. John stumbled against Sherlock’s body and wrapped his free hand around the back of Sherlock’s neck and deep into his hair. At the tightened grip, Sherlock sucked in a breath at the sudden rush of endorphins that pooled in his groin.

“John?” he asked, his voice a few tones lower than normal.

He saw John’s eyes dilate and his lips part for a breath. He looked down at Sherlock’s upturned face and must have seen the same flush of arousal.

“Sherlock?”

Without looking at it, Sherlock took the empty glass from John’s grip and set it on the bedside table. His arm ached but it was quickly falling away to the heady lust that was licking through him.

“Don’t give up on me, John. I’ll be anything you want. I’ll do anything you want. I’ll change for you,” Sherlock murmured and slid his arms around John’s waist.

He gently nuzzled at John’s abdomen as his hands slipped under the jumper and pulled up the undershirt to touch his bare skin. Their lovemaking had only been slow and gentle up to this point; trying to figure out what each of them enjoyed. They enjoyed the slow and thorough but Sherlock was starting to crave something more. A connection on a more primal plain.

“I don’t want you to change, Sherlock. I just want you to become more aware of how your words can hurt people. You said yourself when we first met that there’s always something you get wrong in your deductions. That one thing you get wrong is usually the difference between pissed off and suicidal,” John said as he gently ran his fingers through Sherlock’s thick hair.

Sherlock breathed in John’s sent and cast about for a way he would be sure to remember this. Something that would cement this conversation in his mind. He looked up and pressed his chin into John’s abdomen to look up at the other man.

“Make me remember, John. Help me to remember this.”

John chuffed softly and weakly smiled. “How am I supposed to do that, Sherlock? You’re the one in control of your mind. Use your bloody mind palace.”

“If I just store it in the palace, it’ll take too long to find it next time. Take me. Make me yours. Burn this moment into my mind,” he said and dropped his head to nip at John’s abdomen through his jumper.

John gasped at the sensation and tightened his grip on Sherlock’s hair. That steady pull drug a groan from Sherlock’s lips. His eyes rolled into the back of his head as his eyelids fluttered close. His skin buzzed at the slight pain. John flexed his grip against his scalp and he slowly opened his eyes to show John his blown pupils. John stared down at the consulting detective and saw the flush running up Sherlock’s neck.

“So you want me to brand this moment into your memory?”

“Yes.”

“Yes, what?”

The commanding tone sent a thrill through Sherlock and his palms twitched against John’s skin. It took only a moment to realize what John was asking for and Sherlock bit at his bottom lip before answering.

“Yes, sir.”

John stepped back suddenly and out of Sherlock’s grip. His posture ramrod straight, John stared down at the aroused detective and let his gaze slowly rove over the offered body.

“Stand and strip.”

Sherlock stood and quickly started to pull his shirt off over his head before a strong hand gripped him around his neck and pulled him against John’s body.

“Strip slowly. I want to admire what’s mine.”

Sherlock felt suddenly light headed at the possessive note in John’s voice. He never would have imagined that John’s voice could make him this hard or horny. John stepped back away from him and nodded for Sherlock to continue. Sherlock stared at John as he slowly unbuttoned his shirt and let it slide from his shoulders to the ground. John made an appreciative sound as Sherlock slowly slid the belt from the loops and dropped it to the floor. He released the button of his trousers and slowly lowered the zipper. John’s gaze sharpened as Sherlock pushed off his trousers and stood there in his pants.

“Take it all off,” John ordered and a flush stained Sherlock’s cheeks briefly before he pushed off his pants and twitched as the cool air hit his hot erection.

John slowly approached and started to walk around Sherlock. All of Sherlock’s nerves were tingling in anticipation as he followed the doctor’s progress. He gasped softly as John’s warm hand gripped his hip and his thumb rubbed against his lower back. The next sensation came from his shoulder blade when John sunk his teeth into the meat and stroked his tongue across the abused flesh.

“Oh god,” Sherlock choked and arched his back to press his shoulder blade against John for more sensation.

John chuckled against the flesh before releasing. “God has no part of this. By the time I’m done with you, you’ll be praying to me to release you.”

Sherlock’s mind was fuzzy. His jaw worked loosely as he tried to form some sort of word. John had all his attention; his physical and mental attention. His body was trembling now and he couldn’t envision what John would do next. How would he play this out? This was new territory for Sherlock and he was reveling in it.

“How far are you willing to go for me?” John asked softly as he ran his other hand up Sherlock’s side and around to his chest.

He rubbed his thumb around Sherlock’s nipple before pinching it. The dirty sound from Sherlock’s mouth surprised him as he sagged against John and thrust his chest forward. He swallowed thickly as his brain struggled to form a coherent sentence.

“As far...as far as you’re willing...to take me...sir,” he muttered and moaned as John’s fingers continued to abuse his nipple.

John growled and suddenly moved away from Sherlock but was back quickly. Sherlock’s arms were pulled back and something was bound around his elbows to keep his arms behind his back. Sherlock briefly wondered why not his wrists but then he remembered the burns. His doctor’s considerations brought a smile to his face but it was gone a moment later when he was turned and pushed against the wall. It was hard enough to knock his breath from him and he gasped as John’s mouth latched onto the forgotten nipple. His hand was still playing with the other nipple but now his mouth was paying attention to the other. Sherlock’s head thumped against the wall as his choked cry was cut off as John’s free hand wrapped around Sherlock’s cock. Sherlock never really considered himself to be vocal but John was uncovering unknown truths about the younger Holmes. He was getting very vocal as John continued to lick, pinch, fondle and basically pull Sherlock Holmes apart at the seams. He was panting in arousal and knew a mind numbing orgasm was just around the corner. Just as he neared the edge, John suddenly stepped back and let Sherlock slump weakly against the wall. Sobbing for the denied orgasm, he panted as he watched John undress. Sherlock eagerly eyed the thick cock that jutted from between John’s legs and moaned in anticipation.

“You’re not getting that yet. I need to hear you beg for it first,” John said and Sherlock gaze snapped up to look at the doctor.

John gripped Sherlock’s bicep and pulled him towards the bed and forced him to kneel on the bed. Sherlock gasped as John pushed his head down to the pillow and found himself bound, kneeling on a bed with his arse elevated and presented for John to use as he saw fit. His shoulders were pressed to the pillow and his face was turned to the side to let him breath. An animalistic groan echoed through Sherlock as his brain finally went offline and the only thought running through it was a mantra of ‘Yes sir, please sir, take me sir, claim me sir, yes, yes.’

Sherlock’s eyes rolled into the back of his head as he felt John’s tongue rim around his entrance. A shudder raced down his spine and his hands clenched uselessly at his lower back as John’s tongue breached the ring of muscle. He started fucking Sherlock’s entrance with his tongue and Sherlock’s vocal cords started working again.

“Please, John! Please, sir, please!”

Sweat was curling his bangs and slowly trickling down his temple. Colors were exploding behind his eyelids. John’s hand gripped the base of Sherlock’s cock to stave off his orgasm which caused Sherlock to growl in annoyance. John’s hand tightened in retaliation as his tongue finished its assault and started kissing along the back of Sherlock’s thighs.

“Someone still needs to be taught a lesson in patience,” John muttered and reached for the lube with the hand not gripping Sherlock’s cock.

Sherlock suddenly felt a cold finger slip into his hole and he groaned at the intrusion. There was enough lube that there was no discomfort, just a pleasing pressure. John added another finger and Sherlock leaned back while biting on his bottom lip. He started to gently rock as he fucked himself on John’s fingers. John’s fingers withdrew for a moment before three fingers were suddenly shoved into his hole. The throaty groan exploded from Sherlock’s lips as new colors exploded in his mind.

“I want to hear you. I want to hear the filthy sounds you make when you’re begging me to fuck you,” John whispered by his ear which prompted a panting moan from the younger man.

His orgasm was building just at the precipice as John gripped the base of his penis and his fingers massaged him from the inside. The constant assault on his prostate was maddening and causing the orgasm to coil in on itself repeatedly. He was practically sobbing for his release; begging for John to fuck him.

“Please, sir, please fuck me. Please, John, I want to feel you come inside me. Please, sir, please!” Sherlock keened and heard his voice break.

The fingers left him and he moaned at the loss. The tight grip around his penis left also and he took a breath before John thrust into him. He was shoved against the mattress by the force and a new cry was wrenched from his lips. John started a punishing pace and constantly brushed against Sherlock’s prostate. Sherlock was keening now in mindless pleasure as John leaned forward and wrapped his slicked hand around Sherlock’s cock. His thrusts were pushing Sherlock’s cock through John’s grip and it only took a few thrusts before Sherlock screamed and his orgasm flooded his senses. He vaguely felt John thrust a few more times before stilling against Sherlock’s arse.

Sherlock must have blacked out for a short while because the next thing he knew his arms were loose, he had been cleaned up and was now laying against John’s side with his head resting on John’s bad shoulder. The duvet had been pulled up to their waist and Sherlock’s injured arm was draped over John’s abdomen. Gentle fingers were carding through his hair while John mindlessly hummed a random tune. Sherlock sighed and shifted closer to nuzzle against John’s chest.

“How are you?” John asked quietly and gently touched Sherlock’s hand with his loose hand.

“Better. I’m sorry for what happened at the crime scene this morning.”

John paused his movement through Sherlock’s hair and sighed before resuming the action. Sherlock remained where he was; he didn’t want to see the disappointment in John’s face. John kissed the top of Sherlock’s head and left his face there to breath in the detective’s scent. He recalled the words and terrified expression on Sherlock’s face when they stood in the kitchen. The normally unflappable, stoic detective was terrified that he might lose John. John had seen the darkness in Sherlock’s eyes that he had worked so hard to banish.

“I’m not going to leave you, Sherlock. I love you too much. You have a brilliant mind and are just an overall amazing man. But sometimes you say things with absolutely no regard to how they might affect another person. Some of the things you’ve said to me have hurt me. If you had said those things to me before we actually knew each other, it might have been enough to push me over the edge and finally eat my gun.” John sighed and kissed Sherlock’s head again. “I just wish you would think before speaking what’s on that brilliant mind of yours.”

Sherlock tightened his grip on John when his mind flawlessly created the scene that ended with a dead John H. Watson. He couldn’t imagine how his life would have turned out to be without John there to guide him. It probably would have ended quickly. The Pretty in Pink case and the pills was the most obvious.

“I’ll try, John. That’s all I can promise right now but I”ll try. For you,” Sherlock replied and lifted his head and shifted to gently kiss John.

 

~~

 

It was a day or two later when Lestrade called them out to consult on a blackmail case. Sherlock hid it well but he was nervous. This was the first time he had been out of the flat after having the session with John. The entire day had been effectively seared into his memory and occupied the main front room of his Palace. He was forcing himself to hesitate before opening his mouth to speak. He was taking the time to actually observe the person’s face and expression and question how his words may affect them. It was more tedious than he expected but if it made John happy then he would try.

They entered the lobby of the NSY and rode the lift up to Lestrade’s floor. The surrounding desks were busy with officers working over cases. Few spared any glances towards Sherlock and John as they crossed the room and knocked on Lestrade’s door. The door swung open to reveal Lestrade and Donovan.

“Oh, look, it’s Freak and his pet. Thought the pet got tired to following you around,” Donovan snapped and Sherlock opened his mouth to fire back but hesitated.

He observed again and picked up on the emotional clues that he usually cast aside. Donovan was about to storm past them when Sherlock grabbed her elbow and pulled her side tightly to his chest. He felt her jump in surprise and start to twist her arm loose when he lowered his head to her ear.

“He doesn’t deserve you,” he whispered and felt her freeze at his soft words.

“Anderson doesn’t deserve you. You are attractive, strong, funny and have a warm side that you don’t let anyone at work see. You’re more intelligent than him but you hide it so he isn’t offended. He should be offended that he can’t match you. You are above him but lower yourself to be with him when you shouldn’t have to lower yourself for anyone. You deserve to be with someone that will be proud of you and everything you are. Not someone that only uses you for sex when his wife isn’t there. You deserve better.”

Sherlock released his grip and straightened to look down at Donovan. She continued to stare straight ahead and breathed shallowly before nodding minutely and continuing through the door. Sherlock turned to Lestrade and John and raised an eyebrow.

“Now, this blackmail case?”

Sherlock looked through the case file and suggested a few avenues of inquiry to Lestrade. Lestrade took notes and called in a Sergeant to follow up. When the door opened, the sounds of a muffled argument reached the three men’s ears and Lestrade raised an eyebrow at the young man.

“What’s going on out there?”

The young man flushed and glanced back over his shoulder before looking back to the Detective Inspector.

“Sergeant Donovan is yelling at Anderson, sir. Something about he doesn’t appreciate her before they went into a empty conference room.”

Sherlock’s lips twitched as he looked over the few cold cases Lestrade had volunteered. He could feel John’s stare boring into him but he steadily ignored him.

“I’ll look these over Lestrade and get back to you,” Sherlock said and stood from his chair.

John and he walked to the lift and saw Donovan emerge from the conference room. Anderson trailed after her and scurried to his desk as Donovan practically strutted to hers. She locked gazes with Sherlock and subtly dipped her head head in greeting.

“Have a good day, Sherlock.”

The lift doors opened and Sherlock caught John’s arm to drag him into the lift since the doctor seemed to be frozen in place by shock. The doors slid shut and Sherlock stared at his reflection as John turned and stared at him. Sherlock surprisingly had a warm, fuzzy feeling in his chest from helping Donovan. She did deserve better but just hadn’t been able to acknowledge it herself.

“What did you say to Donovan?”

Sherlock recalled the conversation at the pub while searching for John. ‘When you’re screwing up and nobody says anything to you anymore, that means they’ve given up on you.’

“I called her out on her screwups.”

 

~~

 

‘When you’re screwing up and nobody says anything to you anymore, that means they’ve given up on you’ is from the book ‘The Last Lecture’ by Randy Pausch.

 


	2. Salvation

‘None of us can ever save himself; we are the instruments of one another’s salvation, and only by the hope that we give to others do we lift ourselves out of the darkness into light.’ - Dean Koontz.

 

Sherlock slowly slid from the bed and gently lowered John’s arm back to the mattress. The army doctor snuffled softly before slowly pulling his arm back to his torso and falling into a deeper sleep. Smiling at his unnoticed escape, Sherlock picked up his robe from the nearby chair and pulled it on over his nude body. Letting himself out the bedroom, he silently closed the door behind him and proceeded to the kitchen. His muscles were sore in a pleasant, worn to extreme pleasure type way; a soreness that would remind him throughout the door of who caused the soreness. He quickly fixed himself a cup of coffee and carried it over to the windows and looked out at the early morning walkers and commuters. His mind lazily made random deductions about the people he saw but let them slide past and into oblivion just as quickly. It was just something to get his mind fine tuned and prepared for the day. Since John and he became a couple, he had tried to increase his amount of sleeping hours. He had learned the joy of falling asleep in someone’s arms and waking up to insistent kisses and nibbles.

Chuckling softly, he turned away from the window and went back to the kitchen and set his empty mug into the sink. He loosened his robe as he walked to the bathroom and started the shower. While in the shower, he heard a few bumps coming from the bedroom and then footsteps heading towards the kitchen. John was up and moving. Sherlock quickly washed his hair and body before turning on more hot water. He braced his hands against the shower wall and lowered his head to hang between his shoulders. The hot water pounded on his back of his neck and ran down his back and sides in rivulets. He was getting better about firing off his harsh deductions. Usually, he ended up saying them anyway but he did take the extra few seconds to evaluate how they might be received. On occasion, he did soften his tone or just gave dirty looks instead of speaking. On very rare occasions, he whispered a few words to John and the Doctor would intervene to discover some medical issue. Sherlock found that taking the extra few moments allowed him time to either confirm his earlier deductions or actually see a few more. The few more deductions added to his overall picture and actually helped his work. Sherlock also wouldn’t admit it, but his deductions got better. Granted, Sherlock wasn’t doing it all out of the goodness of his heart. He was getting some great sex out of it.

Straightening, he slicked his hair back and spun the knobs to off. Several minutes later, he entered the kitchen dressed and ready for the day. John stood against the counter cradling a steaming mug of tea still dressed in his pajamas and robe. His head was tipped back and his eyes were closed as he savored the hot beverage. Sherlock paused and appreciated the view of his lover. It took him a few moments to realize that John was watching him and a faint flush stained his cheeks at being caught oogling.

John smiled as he stood and walked to Sherlock. He rose up on his toes and placed a kiss on the underside of Sherlock’s jaw. “You shouldn’t be embarrassed. I love that you oogle me. Makes me want to mark you all over again.”

Sherlock flushed at that and felt the most recent bite marks on his inner thighs throb in anticipation. John had marked him in identical spots on both thighs before whispering, ‘So when you walk and feel them rub together, you’ll remember who put them there and remember how good it felt.’

John continued to walk past him and disappearing into the bedroom. It took Sherlock a few moments to get his thoughts in order and relegate the sexual ones to the back of his mind where he kept them during the day. John was way too good at taking Sherlock to the edge and keeping him there until he was ready for him. That usually left Sherlock trembling and gagging for it so badly that his intelligence was left in a bubbling mess of goo at John’s feet. Sherlock was happy with where they were. John managed to shut Sherlock’s brain off and give him blissful silence while also giving him blissful sex. Sherlock’s brain was also more organized now, surprisingly.

“So, what’s the plan for today?” John asked as he walked back into the living area dressed and carrying his socks and shoes.

“Southwark Street. A friend is calling in a favor. Then St. Bart’s. Molly has some diabetic toes for me that I wanted to try a new experiment on.”

John stopped in his action of pulling on socks and slowly sat up to look at Sherlock.

“A friend? You don’t have friends. Well, none that I don’t know about.”

Sherlock wobbled his head side to side and grimaced. “He uses friend, I use acquaintance. You’re the only one that gets title of friend.”

“Oh, all I get is friend now? When did I get downgraded?” John asked and went back to pulling on socks and shoes.

“Alright, best friend if you’re so insistent,” Sherlock commented dryly and leaned over the table while tapping at his laptop.

Sherlock gasped as a firm hand ran over his arse and gripped a cheek. John pulled Sherlock’s hips back and ground against him as Sherlock slapped his hands onto the desk to brace himself. John’s body heat warmed his entire back side and suddenly Sherlock wasn’t that interested in getting to Southwark Street.

“Okay, fine, you’re a best friend with benefits,” Sherlock ground out, knowing exactly what he was doing.

John chuckled and kissed along the back of Sherlock’s neck.

“I’m the man that can’t keep his hands off his insanely brilliant, gorgeous and hot as hell boyfriend. But we have work to do,” John said and stepped back to deliver a strong slap to Sherlock’s arse.

Sherlock raised an eyebrow at John’s antics didn’t try to stop the brief smile. He never knew a relationship could be so playful. A few minutes later and they were in a cab on their way to Southwark Street.

“So what’s this case?”

“You remember Petra Daniels we helped a few months ago?”

“The little old lady that pinched your arse?”

Sherlock made a noncommittal noise but John saw the faint blush of embarrassment peak above his shirt collar. “She recommended us to a close friend whose son has gotten into trouble with the police.”

Sherlock paused and waited for John to catch up.

“So, why aren’t we talking to Lestrade?”

Sherlock turned and looked at John with a faint grin. Knowledge dawned on John’s expression.

“NSY has no record of the boy being in trouble. So, if he’s in trouble with the police. What police?”

“Exactly. I was interested.”

It was several more minutes before they reached the neighborhood. It was a rundown neighborhood but not the worst the two had been in. John was still looking around while Sherlock went up to a door and hit the buzzer for one of the flats. The door buzzed open to allow the two men entrance. John followed closely and went up to the third floor. The few doors they passed were mispainted and scraped showing years of abuse. Some of the doors showed obvious attempts to freshen everything up but only so much could be done before having to replace the whole door. Sherlock knocked on a door and John heard multiple locks being disengaged from the other side. When the door opened, both John and Sherlock’s gaze dropped to look at the old African American woman that held the door open. She was several inches shorter than John but stared at them with a steeliness that was hard won.

“Yes?”

“Ms Paulson? Petra Daniels said you needed some help. I’m Sherlock Holmes and this is Dr. John Watson. May we come in?”

She stared at them blankly for a brief moment before recognition and memory came to her. The steeliness disappeared and was replaced with a bright smile.

“Yes, please, come in. I’ll get some tea started. I have some biscuits around here somewhere. Need to get something for Mr. Sherlock Holmes,” she muttered excited and started wobbling towards the kitchen.

John and Sherlock glanced at each other and followed the woman into the kitchen. Sherlock’s head was constantly moving around as he took in everything they passed. The home was well kept but it was obvious that they didn’t have a lot of money. The walls held pictures of a large family and an obviously loving family. John leaned against the wall of the small kitchen and occasionally moved to help Ms Paulson. She shooed him away every time and John eventually just stayed against the wall.

“Where is your grandson son, Ms Paulson?” Sherlock asked as she poured out the boiling water.

John didn’t ask how Sherlock knew it was the grandson and not son. Probably from all the pictures on the wall in the hallway when they walked into the kitchen. She shuffled over to the wall and banged against it.

“Lawrence! Kitchen!”

A moment later, a door down the hallway opened and a young African American man appeared in the kitchen doorway. He looked to be about fifteen or sixteen years old. His dreads went down to his mid back and were pulled back at the nape of his neck. His gaze darted between John and Sherlock and then to his grandmother before dropping to the floor. During that brief moment his head was lifted both Sherlock and John saw the scraps and cuts on his face. John stepped forward and carefully lifted the young man’s face to look at the scraps. He asks quiet questions while Sherlock looked on. The young man had obviously been roughed up during his ‘encounter’. Sherlock’s gaze flitted over the young man before looking over at the Grandmother.

“Ms Paulson, John is a doctor, why don’t you show him the medications you’re taking and talk to him about your concerns. I”ll stay and talk with young Lawrence,” Sherlock suggested and quickly glanced at John before looking to Lawrence.

John had been with Sherlock long enough to know if Sherlock suggested doing something then it was the best bet to follow the suggestion. He had his reasons for every action. There was nothing he could do for Lawrence’s injuries. They were mostly superficial but were still painful. With a quick nod, John followed the old woman out of the kitchen while she started rambling off the list of medications she was on.

Sherlock watched Lawrence and saw the young man’s eyes dart up to look at him before dropping to the floor again.

“Hello Lawrence, I’m Sherlock. I’m here to help so don’t lie to me because I will know. Why did you lie to your Grandmother about being in trouble with the police?” he asked and saw the minute flinch that told him he hit the nail on the head.

“She worries about me. Telling her that I was in trouble with the police was the lesser of two evils.”

“When you choose the lesser of two evils, always remember it is still an evil. What code did you write or whose computer system did you hack?” Sherlock asked and took a step closer to Lawrence.

Lawrence’s head shot up to look at Sherlock and the detective rolled his eyes. “You’re properly dressed, not like the other young man around your age, so you don’t hang around them much. Why’s that? It could be because of your Grandmother and she trying to keep you away from bad influence. But then you’d hang around with them at school but you’re a loner at school also. The outside edge of your right thumb is worn and calloused, I only see that degree of it on three professions; either seamstress, postman or computer work. The constant twitching of your pointer finger leads me to you work with computers. But you’re more than computer savy since you spend a lot of free time on your computer, you’re a computer genius. Computer genius spend most of their time on hacking or writing code. So which is it?”

Lawrence hesitated a moment before jerking his head to the side and walked out of the kitchen. Sherlock followed and found one of the doors off the hallway opened and Lawrence standing just inside the room. Sherlock stepped in and stopped to look around the bedroom. It was the stereotypical messy bedroom of a sixteen year old but what differed was what made it messy. The walls and floors were cluttered with medical and chemical books from the library. Sheets of paper with scribbled sections of computer code and chemical formulas stuck out from between and under books. Two computer monitors in the corner of the room lit up the darkened room. One screen showed a rotating complex molecule while the other screen showed endless streams of computer code.

“Between those two options, I would say I write computer code. A few months ago, I heard that the Department of Education was offering a cash prize of one million pounds to the student with the invention that would have the biggest contribution to society on a whole. If I won the prize money then my grams and I could move somewhere better, where she wouldn’t have to walk the stairs everyday and maybe I could go to university,” Lawrence said and shrugged.

Sherlock carefully stepped over the books and random sheets of paper to look closer at the computer screen with the molecule. He could immediately tell that it was a chemical compound of a popular drug. He glanced at the computer code on the next screen but that was not his interest and all looked like gibberish to him.

“So, what is your submission to the competition?”

Lawrence stepped forward, suddenly eager to show off his creation. He sat in his chair and tapped a few keys. A double helix appeared and next to it were lists of chemical formulas.

“This is a representation of human DNA; a specific individual’s DNA. I’ve built a code that can predict a specific human’s reaction to a specific drug; even taking into account pre-existing conditions. This will severely cut down on unintentional reactions and side effects. I can also input family issues and the program will incorporate that into the calculations. So if your family has a history of alcohol problems but you don’t, the program can predict if a certain drug will make you more prone to alcoholism or a possible reaction to your biological tendance for that. This will revolutionize how drugs are prescribed and tested.”

“Have you experimented yet or is this all theory?”

“I’ve tested it on myself and Grams. I need blood and tissue sample to gather the data points and it takes a while but so far my results are promising.”

Sherlock nodded and looked at the young man. “The men that beat you up, what did they say or want?”

“They said my dad owed them a debt and that I responsible to pay it up. I told them I didn’t even know my dad; hadn’t been by since I was a year or two old. They still wanted to be paid but I didn’t have anything.

“They hit on me a bit more before telling me that I had better find something or they’ll kill my Grams in front of me next time.”

Sherlock nodded and slowly turned away. Stopping at the doorway, he looked back to Lawrence.

“Keep working on it, Lawrence. I’ll be back in a few days.”

Sherlock shouted for John and eventually they were in a cab heading to St. Bart’s. Sherlock stared out the window and occasionally brought out his mobile to some quick research or send off a text. He was getting lost in his mind when a gentle poke at his thigh brought him back to the present. John was staring at him with expectations and Sherlock shook his head slightly.

“Tell you later. Still thinking over some things,” Sherlock muttered and turned to look back out the windows.

The ride was quiet except for the faint sounds from the cab driver’s radio. Sherlock’s mobile chimed a few times when texts and emails came back about his original ones sent off. He had some research to finish once he was at home but had a good lead on Lawrence’s case and knew he would finish it within two days. The cab slowed when they reached St. Bart’s and Sherlock was out of the door before it had come to a complete stop.  He heard John mumbled behind him but his mind was racing too much to care at the moment. He expected he would pay for it later but he really didn’t mind. Paying for it usually meant great sex so he wasn’t opposed. Entering through the A&E doors, Sherlock started for the lift but stopped when John grabbed his arm. John tilted his head to the side and Sherlock glanced over. He was mildly surprised to see Lestrade sitting in one of the waiting chairs tiredly looking around at the other visitors.

Sherlock walked over and heard John behind as they approached the detective inspector.

“Lestrade, is everything okay?” John asked and sat in the chair next to Lestrade.

“Yeah, just got some bad news that I was hoping not to get.”

“That sentence makes absolutely no sense at all. No one hopes for bad news. It’s like a double negative,” Sherlock started but stopped at John’s sharp look.

Lestrade ignored Sherlock and glanced over at the automatic double doors. “There was a rape case I worked a few months ago. We caught the guy but not before he raped the girl again. Really messed her up, physically and emotionally. There was a time she was suicidal but she was seeing a therapist so I assumed she had gotten over the urges. I stayed in touch with her mom to make sure she was okay. But she swallowed a bunch of pills this morning; they’re working on her now.”

“Sometimes the warning signs are hard to see, Greg. People can hide them well if they really try,” John commented and Greg looked over at him.

“I know that, John, but the bigger point is I didn’t even see her after the trial. Thought if she saw me then she would be reminded of the rape. Maybe I should have tried harder to stay in touch with her,” Greg muttered and sighed as he leaned forward to press his elbows onto his knees and rub his face.

“I wish I could have done more for her. Wish I could have let her know that she wasn’t alone.”

A moment later, the automatic doors opened to spit out a Doctor who called out a girl’s name. A middle aged woman stood and slowly approached the Doctor as Lestrade also slowly stood. Sherlock easily read the Doctor and gently tugged on John’s sleeve. When John glanced over, Sherlock shook his head and John visibly sagged. John put his hand on Greg’s shoulder just as the woman burst into tears and started to crumple. Lestrade sucked in a deep breath at the sight and slowly released it when it become apparent that it wasn’t good news.

“I’m sorry, Greg,” John muttered as Greg turned away from the sight.

“Yeah, thanks, John. I’ll see you two around.”

Lestrade walked up to the Doctor and the grieving mother and rubbed her back slowly. She turned away from the Doctor and threw her arms around Lestrade and cried into his shoulder. John and Sherlock watched this for a moment before they both turned away and walked back to the lift. Sherlock glanced back once more and looked closer at Lestrade’s face. He knew it made no sense but Lestrade looked older; more...ragged. He was silent on the lift ride and automatically walked to the pathology lab. He talked with Molly and thanked her for the toes but his mind was working on a larger problem. As they left the pathology department, Sherlock snagged John’s arm and pulled him in the opposite direction than the exit. He ignored John’s questions and made his way to the records department.

The door was unlocked, which Sherlock scoffed at, and he pulled John into the large room. The hospital employed a mix of digital and paper records of all medical cases. Sherlock needed to research all of them.

“I know that look, Sherlock. You’re onto something.”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about John,” Sherlock muttered and sat in the desk chair while tapping at the keyboard to wake the computer up.

“You have that same look you had when you talked to Donovan in Lestrade’s office last week. You’re going to do something nice for Lestrade,” John said with a bright smile as Sherlock glanced over at John.

Sherlock didn’t say anything and continued working on the computer. The security system was a joke and he quickly hacked in and entered in search criteria. Printing off a short list, he handed it over to John without looking at him.

“Pull these medical hardcopy files. I don’t care about the medical data, I need to know why and how Lestrade was involved. If he played an important part in a good way, then take down their name and a way to get in contact.”

John grumbled again and took the sheet of paper from Sherlock. It was quiet in the room except for the typing of keys on the keyboard and the ruffle of files being opened and flipped through. Sherlock started printing documents and quickly scanned through other files. His plan for Lestrade was going to be easier than he expected. He would have to go to NSY for the other parts. That’s where they would go next. His mind was happily toiling over two interesting problems. Sherlock stood and grabbed the stack of papers from the printer.

Hands suddenly grabbed his hips and pinned him against the desk and against the warm printer. His choked cry of surprise was cut off by his moan as John’s hand reached around and palmed his crotch. His arousal from earlier rushed back to him and his cock quickly started to harden.

“Do you have any idea how hard it gets me knowing that you’re doing something nice for Lestrade? After all the grief you give him,” John groaned and ground against Sherlock’s arse.

“Oh, god, John,” Sherlock moaned and clenched the sheets in his fist as he braced himself against the wall.

“I need to be in you. I want to be in you,” John growled and started unbuckling Sherlock’s belt.

Sherlock nodded and glanced around the room. “File cabinets. Less chance of moving them and breaking something.”

John looked over to see the long two drawer file cabinet against the wall. They shifted over and Sherlock quickly dropped his trousers and pants to around his ankles and bent over the file cabinet. John produced a small packet of lube that he had started keeping in his jacket pocket and ripped it open. Coating three of his fingers, he quickly started stretching Sherlock and brushed against the detective’s prostate.

“Are you purposely...trying to make me scream-oh god-,” Sherlock muttered and threw his head back as John rubbed his finger over the sensitive nub inside Sherlock.

Sherlock bit his lip and rocked back on John’s three fingers. His erection was throbbing and begging for attention but Sherlock enjoyed dragging it out too much to touch himself yet. He felt John’s fingers leave him and he moaned at the loss but also moaned at what was coming next. He shuddered at the sounds of John lowering his trousers, pants and slipping on a condom. One of John’s arms wrapped around his chest and held him as he slowly eased into Sherlock’s tight passage. Both men groaned at the sensation and John paused while he buried his head into Sherlock’s clothed back. Sherlock breathed a sigh of pleasure and clenched his muscles to feel John twitch inside him. He rocked back as a wordless order to start moving and groaned as John complied. John’s movements were slow, steady and deep as he held Sherlock close to him. The slow and steady thrusts were constantly brushing John’s cock against Sherlock’s prostate and the sensations were about to swallow Sherlock under it. Sherlock reached around and grabbed at John’s jacket and wrapped his fist around the fabric to tug him into moving faster. Sherlock didn’t know for how long he could keep quiet. John had to hurry and make him come quickly before he lost all control. History had proven how vocal Sherlock could get and knew without a doubt that his wordless keens and moans would draw attention. They were in a busy hospital and neither knew how long it would be until someone came into the records room. The threat of discovery added to the arousal and lust that was hitting both of them hard. The only sounds were their heavy breathing and the soft squelch sounds as John slid into Sherlock’s willing body.

“Touch yourself, Sherlock. Come for me,” John whispered and gave a particularly deep thrust.

Sherlock keened softly and clenched his eyes shut as he reached a hand down to wrap around his aching cock. He squeezed firmly and gave a few gentle twists that started him bucking against the file cabinet and clenching around John. John started moaning and his steady thrusts started to stutter. Sherlock brushed his thumb over his head and felt his orgasm break over him. He released his grip on John’s jacket and thumped his fist against the wall while biting his lip against the scream. He felt John bury his face between Sherlock’s shoulder blades and bit into his jacket as he gave two more powerful thrusts and stilled against Sherlock. A soft groan escaped from Sherlock at the sensation of John coming inside him. He lowered his head to the file cabinet and rested his warm forehead against the cool metal. John released his hold on his jacket and slowly pulled out of Sherlock but kept leaning against Sherlock.

“That was good,” John muttered softly and Sherlock nodded.

John chuckled and removed the used condom before pulling up his pants and trousers. Sherlock started to push himself up but a hand on his lower back kept him bent over the file cabinet.

“Not yet, I have a surprise for you,” John whispered and reached in his jacket pocket.

“You know I don’t like surprises.”

“Oh, you’ll like this one.”

Sherlock grumbled but then gasped when he felt something hard and smooth press against his anus. There was enough lube left that it eased in smoothly and his body opened up to the object. The flare at the base was larger than John and Sherlock felt the beautiful burn before his rim settled around the ridge to keep it in place. Sherlock moaned beautifully at the fullness and clenched his muscles around the object.

“You bought-” swallow “-a butt plug?”

John pressed against the base and smiled when Sherlock threw his head back and rocked at the intrusion. Sherlock panted when the direct pressure was released but the indirect pressure was still there. He felt John step back and he slowly pushed himself up to standing position. He slowly pulled up his pants and trousers to start getting dressed again. He had to pause when the plug shifted inside him and sent a rush of endorphins flooding through his body. Even though he just came, his cock was already getting interested in the proceedings.

“You are evil,” Sherlock muttered and tried to fight down the blush he felt stealing up his neck.

John smiled brightly and thrust his hands into his pockets. “That’s not evil. This is evil.”

There was a brief moment as Sherlock stared at him in confusion before the plug buried inside him gave a strong vibration right against his prostate. It was only a brief vibration but it effectively buckled Sherlock’s knees and almost sent him to the floor. Slapping a hand to the wall and file cabinet was the only thing that kept him on his feet. He panted and let his eyelids flutter close while he tried to center himself again. Sherlock had a good idea of what he looked like now: eyes dilated to almost blackness, flush staining his cheeks, neck and a lot of other places on his body, pulse throbbing in his neck, utterly debauched from their earlier session, and lust permeating his expression. He opened his eyelids and stared directly at John to let him see the state he was in. John’s breath caught in his throat and he licked his lips hungrily at the sight.

“You look amazing, Sherlock. I can’t wait to get you home,” he muttered as Sherlock grabbed the papers that he had honestly forgotten about up to that moment.

John grabbed a few tissues from the desk and cleaned up Sherlock”s ejaculate the was oozing down the side of the filing cabinet. He tossed away the tissues and glanced around the office to ensure that everything was still in its original place.

“You are going to ruin me,” Sherlock mumbled with a slight grin and reached out to quickly pinch John’s arse.

John and he chuckled as they left the records room. They left St. Bart’s and climbed into a cab. Sherlock told the cabbie to take them to NSY and leaned back in the seat. He need to get to NSY’s record room to look up Lestrade’s other cases. The plug was buried deep in him and he bit back a groan that threatened to escape his tightly clenched lips. John was cruel when he picked this new toy. But Sherlock was actually enjoying it. He figured John had the remote that started the vibrations. Thankfully, he hasn’t cued it since the record’s room. Or he might be waiting to catch Sherlock unaware. Or waiting for him to get use the plug’s presence. Sherlock would admit that the sensation of being constantly plugged was distracting. Add that to the thought that at any moment John might hit the switch or button and Sherlock was finding it difficult to keep his mind on track. John knew that Sherlock enjoyed pushing the boundaries and this would push him right up against the gates.

Pulling out his mobile, Sherlock fired off a few texts to people just as the cab was pulling up to NSY. Sherlock paid the cabbie and they walked across the courtyard towards the entrance. They rode the lift down to the sub-basement and found an empty office with a computer and printer. Sherlock briefly filled John in on his plan for Lestrade which prompted John to pin Sherlock against the wall and snog him senseless while toying with the remote control. The whole activity left Sherlock breathless and slightly lightheaded from the lack of blood flow to his brain. Both men then had to stay on opposite sides of the room until they cooled down. John sat at the computer and searched through the records while Sherlock sent mass emails and made phone calls. His email app was starting to ding constantly with replies and clarifications. At one point, Dimmock appeared and just handed a folded sheet of paper to Sherlock before turning around and leaving again. Sherlock simply slipped it into his inner jacket pocket and continued working on his mobile. Putting his mobile on vibrate, Sherlock slipped it into his pocket and followed John out of the office and to the lift. They hailed a cab and climbed in.

“Parliament, please,” Sherlock said to the cabbie and saw John’s head swivel around to stare at Sherlock.

“We’re going to Parliament?”

“Yes, John. We are going to Parliament and I have a vibrating butt plug in my arse,” Sherlock said dryly and simultaneously saw John flush bright red and felt the cab swerve slightly.

Sherlock smiled brightly at the reactions and kept his gaze directed out the window at the passing scenery. His hand suddenly slapped down onto the window sill as a powerful vibration jolted through him. His head dropped forward and his hair shielded his face as his bit his bottom lip to stifle the moan. The vibration lasted four seconds but it was directly against his prostate and left him panting and hard as steel. Tilting his head slightly, he cut his eyes to the side to look over at John and let the doctor see the side of his face as he slowly licked his bottom lip. Another four second vibration hit and he grunted that time and his eyes rolled into the back of his head. It took him a few moments to realize that the cab had stopped in front of Parliament and John was standing at the open cab door looking at Sherlock. John paid the bright red cab driver and watched as it sped off before looking over at Sherlock. If John didn’t know better he first assumption would be that Sherlock was ill but he knew exactly where the flushed appearance and slight hazy expression was coming from.

“I think we were his most exciting fare for the day,” John commented before looking over at Sherlock and noticed how he was keeping his jacket closed in the front. “Problem?”

Sherlock glared at John before stepping close to press the front of his body against John’s side so he could feel Sherlock’s ‘problem’. John sucked in a breath at the contact and froze.

“Yes, and once we get home I am going to pin you on the couch and bury myself in your arse. When I’m done with you, you won’t be able to walk for a week without feeling it,” Sherlock growled and heard John release a shuddering breath.

Stepping away, Sherlock started walking towards the visitor’s gate and mentally willed his erection away. It had only started to consider doing that when they entered the political grounds and started for the Education offices. Sherlock breezed into the office and glanced around before looking at the man behind the desk.

“I need to speak to the executor of the Prometheus Award,” Sherlock stated with the condescension only a Holmes could deliver.

“Mr. Druberry is disposed at the moment. His next -”

“Tell your Mr. Druberry, that Sherlock Holmes and Doctor John Watson need to see him. Now.”

Sherlock stood directly in front of the desk and used his height to glare down at the man baring his path to the executor. Sherlock Holmes knew how to do dark and brooding, John mused and crossed his arms across his chest to watch the man squirm. It only took a few dark stares until they were being buzzed into an opulent office. The large windows looked out at the Thames River and Westminster. The older gentleman seated behind the desk looked up from his papers and stood to come out from behind the desk.

“Mr. Sherlock Holmes and Dr. John Watson, it is a pleasure to meet you both. I follow your exploits and work on your websites. It’s an honor,” he said eagerly and reached out to shake their hands.

“Mr. Druberry, we would like some information about the award programs. More specifically, the Prometheus Award,” Sherlock said and declined the executor’s offer of coffee or tea.

“Certainly, anything I can do,” he answered and motioned towards the chairs as he went back behind his desk and sat.

“Can you walk us through the whole process of selecting the recipient?”

“Certainly. We accept applications from all secondary education age students; so from eleven years old to seventeen years old. They must show proof of being enrolled in English school for at least the past two years. All the submissions go through a general inspection to ensure they meet the basic requirements. Then they are critiqued by ten randomly selected teachers that narrow it down to twenty. At that point, the submissions that made it this far are critiqued again by another ten randomly selected teachers. Those ten go through another selection process and then narrowed again to five submissions. Those five are revealed to the public and are voted for over the course of two months,” Mr. Druberry explained and John shifted to lean forward.

“Are there any ongoing cases of cheating?” John asked and laced his fingers together.

“None yet this year but when one million pounds is on the line then you get the occasional attempt. We do everything we can. When we have narrowed the submissions down to twenty, we compare them to the student’s educational records and history. If the quality of submission matches the student’s history then the submission is advanced. If not, then we start looking closer.”

“Mr. Druberry, what phase are you at now in the selection process?” Sherlock asked and steepled his hands in front of his mouth.

“We have the first phase’s twenty submissions. Students are allowed to continue working on their submissions and can submit upgrades until we reach the final ten. The next critique is at the end of this week.”

“Can we see the twenty submissions and their respective student files?” Sherlock asked, and slouched slightly in his chair as his eyelids slid shut.

Mr. Druberry hesitated and looked between the two men seated across his desk. John was watching Mr. Druberry and Sherlock had his head tilted back in thought.

“I would like to know why. Are you investigating an allegation of cheating? Seems to be a small job for you two,” Mr. Druberry said with hesitation, reluctant to insult the well known detective and doctor.

“Can a student withdraw his submission?” Sherlock asked as his head snapped up to look at Druberry.

The executor was startled for a moment before he answered. “Yes, however it’s never happened.”

“A student and his family has been physically threatened to withdraw his submission and hand it over. I feel it might be another student with a submission in the contest. I need to see the projects and their respective files.”

Mr. Druberry paled and slowly nodded as he stood. He walked over to a tall file cabinet and unlocked a drawer to withdraw a thick stack of files. He handed the stack to Sherlock and another stack to John. He motioned towards a large table and quickly cleared the few small stacks of papers.

“Each submission has the student’s file attached to it. If you gentlemen don’t mind, I have a meeting. When you finish with the files, please put them back in the file cabinet and lock them up,” Mr. Druberry said and collected his briefcase and left the office.

Once he left, Sherlock immediately went to the file cabinet and inspected the lock for tampering. John spread out the files and placed the student files on top. He started glancing through the submissions and whistled softly.

“Some of these are amazing, Sherlock. This student has theorized a method of reducing London’s carbon output by thirty-five percent in the first five years. This student has designed a better chip and pin machine, she has my vote,” John commented and spread out the twenty submissions on the large table.

“The lock hasn’t been picked,” Sherlock said to himself and glanced in the file cabinet at the other files.

He pulled the papers out and quickly glanced through them. His eyes skimmed over the words and mentally filed away the important names to look up later. His suspect list was narrowed down to three people but he needed something else. Walking over the table, he grabbed one of the submissions and scanned over it before looking over the student’s file. He scanned through every submission and set three aside to look at later. John took away the discarded files and put them on the corner of the desk, away from Sherlock’s long reach. If Sherlock hit a mental roadblock, he might sweep the files away in annoyance without realizing he was doing it. John was just saving himself the time of cleaning up the documents and putting everything back in order. Sherlock had the three files laid out in front of him on the table and had his arms braced on the table to look down at the files. There was something there that he couldn’t see. Something Mr. Druberry had said that was the key. His fingers started typing out a pattern on the table as his mind mulled over the conversation. There were too many inputs.

“John, use that stupid remote of yours.”

John did a double take at the consulting detective as he leaned over the table. “I’m sorry?”

“I can’t get my mind to see the key. There’s too much in the way. Use the remote,” Sherlock said again ran one hand through his hair.

Sherlock knew exactly what would happen. It’s happened before. He would be mulling over an elusive problem and nothing he did could clear away the mental debris. That was before he discovered sex with John. Mindblowing sex had the beautiful effect of clearing his mind of unwanted data and let him see problems clearly again once his mind came back online. He would see the problem from a new angle with nothing else to distract him. After one exhausting sexual marathon, he had solve a problem that had been bothering him for four weeks. While drugged under the haze of endorphins from his orgasm, Sherlock had told John about the mental clearing capabilities of great sex. He doubted John would go for sex in a Parliament office but maybe if he could get Sherlock aroused enough it would work.

A slow smile pulled at John’s lips as he walked to Sherlock’s side and gently turned Sherlock around to face him. He pulled Sherlock’s head down and gently kissed him while wrapped his hand around the back of Sherlock’s neck. Sherlock relaxed into the kiss and slid his arms around John’s waist under his jacket. One moment the kiss and motions were gentle and soothing but the next second John had grabbed a handful of Sherlock’s hair and pulled his head back while pressing the button on the remote. Sherlock was startled; he was sure the remote was still in John’s jacket pocket. He hadn’t seem him palm it before pulling Sherlock down for a kiss. He arched against John’s body as the plug vibrated deeply in his body.

“Oh god, John!” Sherlock yelped and a hand was quickly clamped over his mouth.

“You have to be quiet, Sherlock. Quiet or I stop,” John muttered as he pinned Sherlock against the table and ground into him as his hand slid away from the lush mouth.

Sherlock’s jaw worked uselessly for a moment before he managed to get out a coherent sentence. “Well you better gag me-oh god yes- or…or put my mouth to some other use.”

John grabbed Sherlock’s hair and pulled him to down to plunder Sherlock’s mouth with his tongue. He slipped a hand under Sherlock’s jacket and flicked a nail over Sherlock’s nipple through the shirt. Sherlock grunted into John’s mouth as he felt fumbling at his shirt. John’s mouth disappeared and was replaced with Sherlock’s scarf. John had folded the loose end over itself a few times to create a crude but effective gag. The fabric served its new purpose and muffled Sherlock’s groan as John licked Sherlock’s nipple through his shirt. The fabric quickly became damp and the cool air in the office was enough to tighten the sensitive flesh. John braced his hands against Sherlock’s hips and prevented the detective from rutting against him. Sherlock threw his head back as John started suckling at the base of Sherlock’s neck. When his mouth was done the spot of flesh throbbed and Sherlock whimpered as his gaze roved over the uniform ceiling tiles. The plug was ceasely vibrating against his prostate and black spots were dancing in front of Sherlock’s vision. All he needed was stimulation on his cock and he would be done. The black spots were dancing around his-

Sherlock’s head jerked up and he grabbed at John’s shoulder. The plug stopped a moment later and the doctor’s head raised from its spot where it was placing another lovely hickey on Sherlock’s neck. Sherlock spat the scarf out and stared at the opposite wall as he slowly straightened from his position. His jaw dropped suddenly in realization and his eyes widened.

“That’s it! Oh, John, that’s brilliant! Come on, I have some calls to make,” Sherlock said and quickly started to walk away from the table.

It was testament to how surprising his eureka moment was when Sherlock forgot how loose his whole body was. His knees wobbled and refused to lock before he started crumbling to the ground. John chuckled and darted forward to grab Sherlock under the arms. Sherlock’s head rested back on John’s shoulder as his body caught up with his mind and he realized just how turned on he was. He turned and grabbed John’s head between his hands and bent down to devour John’s mouth. He heard the doctor groan into his mouth and try to pull Sherlock closer to his body.

“First home so I can fuck you, then I’ll make my calls,” Sherlock growled and nibbled on John’s lower lip.

“God, please.”

John quickly stacked the files together and locked them back up in Mr. Druberry’s file cabinet. He called a quick thank you to the secretary as Sherlock and he left the office and exited Parliament. John was painfully hard and he didn’t want to think about how Sherlock was doing. During the cab ride, John started to toy with the remote and was getting smoldering looks from Sherlock in response. John knew he would pay for it later and he was looking forward to it. Sherlock was such a bad influence over him. The cab ride was, thankfully, quick and they were soon stumbling into their flat with hands going everywhere. Jackets went flying and shirts soon followed. Sherlock pinned John to the wall and gripped his wrists to hold his hands by his head. Sherlock ground against John and heard the doctor’s head bang against the wall. In one smooth motion, Sherlock bent slightly and wrapped his arms around John’s thighs, just under his arse and stood. John now had the wall at his back and a very turned on Sherlock pressed against his front and he fit snuggly between John’s thighs. John gripped the hair at the base of Sherlock’s neck and thrust his tongue into Sherlock’s mouth as Sherlock’s hands kneaded his arse.

“Sherlock, couch, now, please,” John murmured into his mouth and didn’t stop kissing him.

Instead of answering, Sherlock slipped one arm under John’s arse and used the other one to blindly feel along the wall to move towards the couch. John kept his arms wrapped around Sherlock’s neck and shoulders to guarantee he wouldn’t fall. Pure lust was churning inside him and he knew it wouldn’t be long for either of them. Once on the couch, Sherlock stood just long enough to remove the rest of his clothing and grab a tube of lube. John also finished stripping and hungrily watched Sherlock as he slicked his fingers. John groaned loudly as Sherlock slipped a long, slicked finger into his entrance and slowly started to move it in and out. John was already so turned on and loose that it quickly progressed to three fingers. The doctor was now starting to thrash whenever Sherlock would brush over his prostate.

“Where’s the remote?” Sherlock rasped while pressing his forehead to John’s thigh.

He just had to hold on for a few more minutes. Just a few more, he breathed to himself and took a deep breath. That didn’t help. This corner of the flat now smelled like sex and lube. He gritted his teeth and glanced up at John.

“Jean...right front...pocket.”

Sherlock scrambled for the jeans and found the small black remote. It was basic with two buttons. Above one button was three small lights which would indicate which speed the plug would vibrate on. Adjusting it to the middle setting, Sherlock handed it to John and moved to sit on the couch. He slicked his own cock before shifting  John to straddle him and looked up at the startled doctor.

“Ride me, John,” Sherlock ground out and pressed the back of his head against the back of the couch.

Slowly grinning, John reached down and guided Sherlock’s slicked cock to his opening and slowly started to lower himself. Both men threw their head’s back and groaned at the sensation. Once John was fully seated, he stilled to acclimatize to the sensation before rocking gently.

Sherlock groaned. “Yes.”

John lifted himself up until Sherlock was just barely in him and tapped the remote before slamming himself back down. Sherlock arched up and thrust deeply into John as a rough cry was dragged out of him. Seated as he was, the vibrating plug was pressed directly against his sensitive prostate. The grip he had on John’s hips was going to leave bruises. His brilliant mind had long ago shut down and now his only thought stream was ‘Yes, more, yes, deeper, please, more’.

“Jesus, I can feel the vibrations,” John moaned and tightened his muscles around Sherlock.

Sherlock was panting and had his eyelids clenched shut in sensation as his head tossed side to side. There was nothing but sensation; exquisite, tingling, overwhelming sensation coiling in his groin. He felt hands on his chest and he looked up at John and watched in fascination as John braced himself on Sherlock’s chest and fucked himself on Sherlock’s cock. Sweat glistened on his chest and neck. The tendons along his neck stood out and heat rolled off both of them. Sherlock kept his hands on John’s hips because he was so far gone at this point that he might actually hurt John if he tried to help him along. He gnawed on his bottom lip as sweat trickled down his temple.

“Touch yourself, John. Come for me John. Scream for me.”

John reached out and wrapped his hand around his own cock. It only took two pulls before his orgasm pulled him down under the wave. He came with a scream and clenched his thighs together to bracket Sherlock’s hips. His ejactulate spurted up onto his chest and abdomen. The pulsing sensation triggered Sherlock and he thrust deeply and felt his orgasm slam into him. All sound was washed away and all that was left was a high pitched hum in his ears as his body pulsed and clenched. His senses slowly returned and he weakly grabbed the remote to turn off the plug. It fell silent except for the heavy breathing. Sherlock slowly blinked to clear his vision and looked up at John. He was still vertical, surprisingly, but didn’t able seem to stay that way. He swayed slightly and swallowed hard before Sherlock reached forward and gently tugged John forward. John slumped against Sherlock’s chest and tiredly kissed Sherlock’s chest.

“That was better,” John murmured and Sherlock chuckled.

Gathering his strength, John lifted himself off Sherlock and slowly knelt on the floor. He nudged Sherlock’s thigh and the detective lifted his hips to let John pull the plug out. Sherlock whimpered softly at the sensation but was too exhausted to even think of doing anything about it. John stayed on the floor and Sherlock stayed on the couch while they both remembered how to breath.

“Shower?” John asked and lifted his head from where it rested on the edge of the couch.

“Yes, please.”

John giggled softly and slowly levered himself off the couch. They took a shower together but cleaned up quickly. Exhaustion was making its presence known as they finished showering and stumbled into the bedroom. Sherlock worked on his mobile for a few minutes with John cuddled next to him until it became too much for Sherlock and he tossed aside the mobile and turned off the light.

 

(!)(!)(!)(!)

 

It took another day for Sherlock to gather the rest of the information for his Prometheus case and to finish the work on his Lestrade case. John helped when he could but he had a full day at the surgery. Sherlock spent most of the day on the computer and didn’t stop until John got home that night. They ordered in dinner and watched crap telly until it was time for bed.

The next morning, Sherlock and John met with Lestrade in the lobby of Bracken Pharmaceuticals. Sherlock had filled Lestrade in on the case of assault and threatening the Paulson family earlier that morning. He laid out all the evidence and Lestrade was satisfied enough to get an arrest and search order. They breezed past the flustered secretary and bodyguards once Lestrade flashed his badge and they entered the office. It occupied the corner of the building and offered a spectacular view over London. A professionally dressed woman in her mid forties stood from her seat behind the desk and held out a hand for the warrant.

“People normally don’t barge into my office so that must mean you’re police. What can I do for you gentlemen?”

“He’s police, we’re not,” Sherlock said once motioning towards Lestrade. “How old is your son, Mrs Bracken?”

“Ten,” she replied and looked over the warrant before his question registered with her. “Why are you interested in my son?”

“Because he’s too young for the Prometheus Award now but he’ll be of age next year. And Lawrence will be too old,” Sherlock replied as he slowly walked past the woman and around her desk.

“I don’t know any Lawrence.”

“Yes, you do. He’s the young man you had your bodyguards assault. I saw one of them outside your office. He has scrapes on his left knuckles where he beat the boy. I assume the others are off for today. It took me a while to figure out how you found out it was his project but I finally did,” Sherlock said as he flipped through a stack of papers on the corner of her desk.

“What are you talking about?”

Sherlock stopped what he was doing and clasped his hands behind his back as he slowly advanced on Mrs Bracken. “One of your employees, a Travis Clampton, was one of the committee that evaluates the submissions for the Prometheus Award. He came back into work afterwards and was talking about one of the submissions that would digitally analyzes a drug’s potential interaction with a human’s unique DNA that showed promise. This got back to you and knew immediately you couldn’t allow it to come to light just yet. Your company has...what, about ten million pounds tied up in drug research over the next few years. Ten million, and possibly more, you would hemorrhage if Lawrence’s program came online. But, you couldn’t stop just there.

“Three weeks ago, you signed your son up for a private tutor to teach him computer programming at an accelerated rate because you knew the committee’s would look over a student’s educational history to see if the student was capable of writing code to this level. A full year’s classes of computer programming plus the private tutor would give the background to your son to be able to pass the project off as his own. Also around the same time, you contacted your stockbroker and started to quietly make arrangements to sell off all your stock in Bracken Pharmaceuticals. I assume you’ve already started searching around for a new job but I won’t be able to find that out until we search your electronic trail from your computer.

“So, when your son submits the program next year, you’ll be out of the pharmaceutical industry and won’t incur any losses. That and you’ll get the one million pound award money. Two birds with one stone,” Sherlock said as he stood directly in front of the woman and looked down at her.

Mrs Bracken glared at Sherlock as she started to crumple the search warrant in her fist. “You think I’d let that poor whelp destroy my business and ruin me? I’ve worked too hard to have it all be torn away from me. Where does he get off?”

“Trying to fix an industry that murdered her mother.”

Sherlock turned and started to walk out of the office. “Go ahead and arrest her, Lestrade. Come, John. See you at the Yard to give our statements, Lestrade.”

John smiled at Mrs Bracken’s obscene screams as Lestrade snapped the cuffs around her wrists. He jogged after Sherlock and passed the one bodyguard also with his wrists in cuffs and an office by his side. Sherlock had the cab make a quick stop so he could pick up a brown wrapped parcel which he placed on the seat between John and himself. John grinned, knowing exactly what was wrapped up in the paper.

Sherlock bounded out of the cab and impatiently waited for John to pay the cabbie. He knew it would take Lestrade a while to get Mrs Bracken to the Yard and through processing. Just enough time to add one thing in it and drop the package off at Lestrade’s desk. Sherlock was impatiently tapping on the lift’s handrail as they rode up to Lestrade’s floor. He made directly towards Lestrade’s office and quickly picked the lock, ignoring the other officers on the floor that watched him curiously. Quickly sitting behind the desk, Sherlock grabbed a pad of paper and quickly scribbled a short message on it before carefully pulling up one taped edge of the package. John stood in the doorway as a look out but glanced back into the office occasionally. He watched as Sherlock carefully pulled out a leather bound book and flipped to the last page to slip the piece of paper in. Putting the book back into the wrapping, he retaped the flap and buried the package under a few layers of papers. It wouldn’t be immediately noticeable but Lestrade would find it before he left for the day.

 

(!)(!)(!)

 

“Detective Inspector, I’m heading home. Is there anything else I can do for you before I leave?” Donovan asked as she leaned into Lestrade’s office.

Lestrade looked up from the stack of reports and weakly grinned before answering. “No, thanks though, Donovan. Have a good night.”

She nodded before disappearing from sight. Lestrade was the last one from his team in the office. There were a few other officers and detectives around but most had gone home an hour or two earlier. They had families to go home to; Lestrade had no one. Just the work. He snorted to himself; he was starting to sound like bloody Sherlock Holmes. Rubbing his eyes, he signed off on the report and placed it in the finished stack. Pulling another paperclipped bunch of papers to him, he revealed a brown paper wrapped package in the stack. Brows furrowed in confusion, he picked up the package and was surprised at it’s weight. Felt like a book, he mused and carefully slit the tape on both ends before unwrapping the paper. Inside was a plain, black, leather bound book or photo album, he mentally corrected once he looked over the size. There was no embossing or anything else to identify it. Flipping open to the first page, Lestrade’s breath caught in his throat and he slowly lowered the book to his desk. On the first page were two pictures, one he recognized easily but the other one was new. There was also a square of written text below the pictures. The recognizable picture was of Lestrade shortly after he started at NSY, at his first case as a rookie. It was a breaking and entering case; the mother and daughter were in the house when it happened. The criminal had not been caught and the little girl was terrified that he was going to come back. Lestrade had found a nearby tourist shop and bought a small stuffed teddy bear dressed in a police uniform. He had told the little girl, ‘Abigail’, his memory supplied, that this was a magical teddy bear that protected its charges and it would protect her until they caught the bad guy. The newer picture was of the obviously grown up Abigail, clutching the ragged teddy bear. The text read, ‘I will always appreciate what Detective Inspector Lestrade did for me that day our home was broken into. I was terrified of everyone I met. I didn’t know who would want to hurt my mom and I so I assumed everyone would. Then he gave me this teddy bear and said that he would protect us because that was his job and he would always be there. I just had to believe in him. I’ve never stopped believing that he would save us. That teddy bear helped me through a lot of rough times in my life. Thank you Detective Inspector Lestrade.’

He slowly flipped through the pages and glanced over the multiple messages and the attached pictures. There were pictures  and messages from people Lestrade had helped over the years. There was one picture of a young man and the text next to it read, ‘Gregory Lestrade stopped me from making possibly the biggest mistake of my life. He kept me out of the gangs and didn’t let me forget that I was important. He pushed me to work hard in school and life. Now I’m married to a wonderful woman and we are expecting our first child and I’m the owner of a successful business. None of this would have been possible if not for Gregory Lestrade. Thank you.’

Lestrade continued to flip until familiar face and handwriting caught his attention. It was a picture of Sherlock staring out the window of his flat down to the sidewalk and a beam of sunlight was shining in on the dark haired detective. The text was longer than any of the ones Lestrade hand glanced over so far.

‘I can easily split my life into two portions. My life before I started with the drugs and my life after I quit the drugs. Yes, there have been a few bumps along the way but that’s how I see it. My first solid memory of the time after the drugs is of Lestrade leaning over me, slapping me repeatedly and calling me a bloody idiot. He took me to his home and cared for me. I ridiculed and cursed at him. Why? Because no one has ever done that for me. He offered me a safe way to keep my mind occupied, the Work. But I had to quit the drugs. At that moment, I realized that someone cared and expected something of me and would hold me to it. That someone would be disappointed if I fell back into the habit. He helped me when I was detoxing and too weak from being sick to clean myself up. He cared for me. Let me know I was worth caring for. I will never admit this out loud or admit to writing this but I’m scared. Scared of disappointing him. I might forget his first name, or how he take his tea, or when his birthday is. But I will never forget how he helped me. How he saved me from myself. How he was my salvation.’

Lestrade sat back in his chair and released a breath he had been holding. He stared at the book in front of him in surprise. There were no words he could come up with to adequately express what he wanted to say. Granted he was British and doubted he would actually verbalize the words but at least he wanted the words there. He knew exactly who put this together. The effort it took to get in contact with all these people from his past was staggering. He shook his head and sat up to reach for his mobile to call Sherlock. A corner of paper sticking out from the under the next page caught his attention and he pulled it out. It was a sheet from the notepad on his desk and Sherlock’s scribble.

‘Lawrence Paulson needs a mentor. Someone to look up to you and guide him through his life. I think you may be able to help. - SH'

 


	3. Brothers

To the outside world we all grow old. But not to brothers and sisters. We know each other as we always were. We know each other’s hearts. We share private family jokes. We remember family feuds and secrets, family griefs and joys. We live outside the touch of time.-Clara Ortega

 

Sherlock Holmes straightened from his uncomfortable position bending over the dead body in St. Bart’s morgue. The man had donated his body to the study of science and Molly had excitedly texted him for an experiment he voiced an interest in. Sherlock had immediately gathered his items and hurried to St. Barts. He texted John at the surgery to inform him where he went so he wouldn’t worry when he got home that evening to no Sherlock.

Snapping off his latex gloves, Sherlock slouched on the stool and rubbed his eyes. Grumbling slightly, he carefully picked out the grit and flicked it away. The experiment was a success but it had involved a long period of time of just sitting, watching and waiting. He had hypothesised if leeches would alter the time of death and if so by how much. It was a success in that the leeches did alter time of death by enough that it would impact a case he was consulting on. Now, he just had to write everything up and get it to the assigned inspector. Sighing, he stood and pushed the sliding tray holding the body back into the cooler and closed the door. Collecting his papers, he went over to the small desk and wrote a quick note to Molly that the experiment was a success and he was done with the body. Slipping his papers into the inner pocket of his jacket, Sherlock left the morgue and headed for the exit. He had been in the morgue for so long the night crew had come on so it was fairly quiet as the walked through the halls. Stepping out onto the sidewalk, it was misting and he burrowed deeper into his jacket against the chill. Turning on his heel, he started walking down the sidewalk. It would be easier to catch a cab up on the busier street since it was so late at night.

Ahead of him, a bulky figure approached him, also burrowing in his jacket against the cold. Just as he neared Sherlock, he glanced up and looked not at Sherlock but at someone behind him. Cursing his distraction, Sherlock turned quickly just as something slammed into the side of his head. A weak cry was forced from his lips as the force knocked him to his knees. Starbursts exploded in his vision as his palms scraped against the pavement to brace his fall. Swaying dizzily, he struggled to try and climb to his feet but knew it would be pointless. The hit was hard; possible mild concussion. The figure leaning over him was cast in shadows and the nearby street lamps did nothing to help Sherlock figure out who it was. The double vision from the concussion was also a contributing factor.

“So, this is the younger Holmes. The pleasure is mine.”

Sherlock didn’t see the knee snapping up but he felt the impact on his cheek. Time seemed to slow as he felt himself fall backwards to the pavement. His vision narrowed and suddenly cut out as his head impacted the wet pavement. ‘John will not be happy with me,’ Sherlock mused briefly before unconsciousness stole him away.

 

(!)(!)(!)

 

Mycroft Holmes sipped at his cup of tea as he glanced over his schedule for the day. Meeting with the Prime Minister at 9:30, surveillance meeting at 11, lunch at 11:45, sit down with Interpol representative at 1300, tea with MI6 director at 1500, paperwork at 1700, home at 1900. A full day; nothing Mycroft liked better. He organized his papers and slipped them into a folder to be ready when his first appointment arrived. Finishing his cup of tea, he set it aside and started making notes for his other appointments. Anthea walked in and placed a stack of papers on his desk and left again without a word, taking the empty cup of tea with her. He scanned through the new stack and put them aside for later. A knock on the door alerted him to the Prime Minister’s arrival and he stood to greet the man.

The meeting went by smoothly and confirmed Mycroft’s conclusions on a few ongoing projects around the world. Signing the meeting off as a success, he put aside the file and started to prep for the surveillance meeting. Feeling his mobile buzz in his pocket, he pulled it out while making a few notes before dropping the pen to answer the phone.

“Yes, Doctor Watson. To what do I owe the pleasure?” he asked while leaning back in his chair.

“Do you have Sherlock on a job?”

Mycroft paused and read deeper into John’s voice. There was concern, slight but bordering on frantic. Asking if Mycroft knew where he was meant Sherlock wasn’t responding to texts or calls from John. Worrying since they were in a relationship now.

“I have not seen or spoken to my brother since Monday.”

It was now Thursday. He stood and reached for the intercom when Anthea walked in without knocking. She was holding a tablet in her hands and her face was stormy.

“He left me a message saying he would be at St. Bart’s for an experiment but that was last night. He isn’t home yet and he’s not answering his mobile. Lestrade hasn’t seen him and neither has Molly,” John was saying as Anthea held up the tablet and tapped the screen.

The volume was muted given that Mycroft was on the phone but Mycroft didn’t need audio. On the screen was Sherlock tied to a chair, shirtless and glaring at the camera with a streak of blood running down the side of his neck. A man stood behind him dressed in jeans, a black tee shirt with dirty blonde hair and a sneer. Sherlock’s mouth moved and a moment later a black rod touched his bare shoulder and his whole body tensed as his head jerked back. Anthea paused the video and looked to Mycroft. Her boss’s face had hardened and there was murder in his eyes. Despite the rocky relationship between Sherlock and Mycroft, Anthea knew that Mycroft loved his younger brother and would do anything he could for him. He could and would murder for his little brother.

He focused back on the mobile still held against his ear and John’s voice from the other end.

“John, you should come down to my office. Now.”

Mycroft hung up and slipped his phone back into his pocket. He clenched his fist around the device before taking a deep breath and releasing it. He closed his eyes and lifted his head as he centered himself. Opening his eyes, he looked down at Anthea.

“John Watson is on his way. Make sure security knows and have him immediately escorted up to the Recon room. Make copies of this and get it to the digital forensics. I want to know where this was sent from, how long ago and anything else they can pull from the video. I want audio to dig through it and find me something. Have them track Sherlock’s last movements. Tell them to start at St. Bart’s last night. We know for a fact he was there.”

Anthea nodded and held the tablet under her arm as she pulled out her blackberry. She automatically started cancelling Mycroft’s other appointments. She could multitask with the best of them. Mycroft started walking towards the secured Recon room and she hurried after him while her fingers quickly worked over the Blackberry’s keyboard. Mycroft slid his security card through the reader and he stormed into the darkened room.

“Give me details on the video.”

“Sent to your private email account approximately six minutes ago. Routed through multiple servers in four different countries before it terminates in Italy. We’re analyzing for any details that could narrow down the actual location.”

“Put the video up on the screen. I want it ready to play with audio in a few moments,” Mycroft said just as the door opened to reveal a security guard and John Watson.

“Mycroft, what’s going on?” John asked as he walked down the steps to where Mycroft stood in front of a large screen.

“John, Sherlock was taken some time between when he texted you yesterday and now. I have people searching through the CCTV videos to better narrow it down. This video was emailed to me just as you called,” Mycroft said and turned to the screen while motioning to someone at the control panel.

The video started and Mycroft saw John jolt slightly at the sight of Sherlock tied to the chair. It was quiet until a voice from off screen started to speak.

“Anything you want to say to your brother, Sherlock?”

“You won’t get anything from him by hurting me,” Sherlock snarled and the black rod touched his shoulder.

A grunt was torn from his lips as an electrical surge tore through his body and his head jerked back at the energy. The audio wasn’t the best but the sound of the electrical charge was clearly heard. The charge only lasted for a few moments before it was removed and Sherlock sagged in the chair. Sherlock panted against the pain and slowly raised his head to flick his hair out of the way.

“Is that all? I thought you were professionals.”

The fist came out of nowhere and struck Sherlock’s diaphragm with startling accuracy. The punch winded Sherlock and he tried to curl around his abdomen and he softly groaned.

“Oh, we don’t want anything from Mr. Holmes. We just want to destroy him. Mycroft Holmes took something important from us and we’re going to pay him back in kind.”

A figure walked in from behind the camera and into the viewing screen to turn and let the camera catch his face. He was middle aged, brown hair streaked with grey. Lines creased his face but his eyes were dead. Dead and cold. Mycroft jerked slightly by John’s side and the doctor knew that Mycroft recognized him. The man stood next to Sherlock and slowly dragged a knife up the bare right pec and watched as blood welled up and started to trickle down Sherlock’s chest. Sherlock bit his bottom lip and eased out a shuddering breath to try and control the pain. When the mystery man reached Sherlock’s upper chest, he moved the knife slowly until the tip was pressed into the meat. There was a moment’s pause before both men moved. The one behind Sherlock wrapped an arm around his neck and pulled his head back to immobilize him. The one with the blade started to slowly twist it into the muscles. Sherlock’s body tried to jerk away but the arm around his throat stopped his from moving too much. The only sounds were Sherlock’s occasional grunts and the sounds of his feet banging on the floor. When the knife was halfway into the muscles, Sherlock’s resolve finally broke and the first cry was wrenched from his lips. He was still trying to minimize the noises but was starting to lose the battle. A pained shout was the only sound when the knife’s hilt was flush against Sherlock’s chest. Both men released Sherlock and stepped back. Sherlock’s head remained tilted back as he breathed against the pain and the man that dug the blade in turned back to the camera.

“I will torture him, Mr. Holmes and I will send you videos of it. Then I will dump his body for you to find and disappear. I’ll be emailing you soon.”

The video cut out and the silence was thick in the room. John’s jaw was clenched tightly in fury and his hands were clenching and unclenching into fists. Mycroft’s only visible sign of his agitation was the tic at the corner of his eye. His mind started racing over the information and categorizing all the data.

“Gather all files on the Flannery brothers. Get me Richards, now! I want all the information you can find out on the two remaining brothers, that recording, that room, everything in thirty minutes in the conference room. I want them found,” Mycroft snarled and whirled around to storm from the room.

John followed and had to struggle to keep up with Mycroft. Both Holmes had legs that meant they could outwalk any normal person even if they weren’t really trying. John kept seeing Sherlock’s face as the blade was forced into his shoulder. He could only imagine what extent of  damage was inflicted on the shoulder. Tendons, muscles, range of movement could be permanently affected. If that was how they started the torture, John wasn’t sure what they would do next. John remembered kissing that shoulder the night before. Feeling the warmth of Sherlock’s body under his lips and fingertips. The soft sighs his actions provoked.

The door to the conference room was already open and Anthea was there with a screen set up and a young man hunched over a laptop. The screen showed security video from St. Bart’s morgue and the young consulting detective was bent over a dead body.

“What do you have?” Mycroft questioned as his gaze darted between the two people.

“We have video of Sherlock at St. Bart’s and leaving. This was around 23:37. Kevin is searching the videos from outside the hospital,” Anthea said and motioned towards the screen.

The black and white video showed Sherlock finishing up in the morgue and walking out. The video jumped to a new camera feed and this showed him walking down the hallway towards the exit. The final video showed a feed of him exiting the door and pausing outside. He looked up at the sky before hunching his shoulders and turning to the right.

“Kevin?” Anthea asked and looked at the young man.

“The camera closest to the exit was disabled earlier that day for maintenance. This is coming from a camera a block away,” he said and tapped a few more keys before a new camera feed came up on the screen.

The video quality was fuzzy but they all could see the figure emerge from the hospital and pause before turning toward the camera and start walking. Disabling Sherlock was quick and efficient. A van pulled up at the kerb and they lifted Sherlock into the back and sped off. The screen showed different video feeds tracking the van until the van merged onto the motorway.

“The CCTV cameras along this motorway were off for approximately one hour last night. Transport can’t find why or how it was done. But it was done from a remote location. I’m still looking but traveling along that motorway for one hour means you pass a lot of exits for roads and other motorways. They could have gone anywhere.”

A small army of assistants came through the door carrying files and laptops. They picked spots around the table and started spreading files and papers around. One of the older men approached Mycroft and waited for the elder Holmes to acknowledge him.

“Mycroft, do you know who took Sherlock?” John asked, eyeing all the activity in the room.

“Yes, John. Towards the beginning of my career, I was responsible for taking down an international arms dealer, by the name of Patrick Flannery. I believe the higher ups didn’t expect me to succeed and just gave it to me to..shut me up, let’s say. Well, I found the head of the snake and cut it off. The rest of the organization fell apart without Flannery or so I was led to believe. Now, I find out that Patrick Flannery’s brothers have taken my little brother and is torturing him for something I did years ago. Tell me Mr. Richard, how did the Flannery brothers manage to slip through your surveillance and kidnap my brother!”

Mycroft had started off speaking quietly and calmly but he finished almost yelling as he turned to face the suited man behind him. John saw Mycroft visibly try to calm himself and if he ever had a doubt if Mycroft cared about his brother it was effectively answered. Both Holmes were just very good about hiding what they were truly feeling. John suddenly felt very sorry for Mr. Richards. He was just as angry and concerned as Mycroft but this was Mycroft’s territory; he was the scary one here. Mycroft used his height and towered over the other man while glaring down at him.

“Talk,” he growled quietly.

“Shamus and Rupert Flannery were taken off surveillance three months ago because after twelve years of continuous surveillance there was nothing. I made the call and discontinued it.”

“I want all the surveillance material from the last year looked over. They were biding their time to strike at me. They must have watched Sherlock and learned his habits. My brother is not so easily taken.”

For the next two hours, Mycroft, John, Anthea and all the assistants pored over videos and surveillance reports. They even looked over the files from Mycroft’s first case concerning Patrick Flannery. Suit jackets had long since been put on backs of chairs and copious amounts of tea had been consumed. Mycroft’s shirt sleeves had been rolled up to his elbows and his tie had been loosened. John was startled by this; he had never seen Mycroft outside of his pristine suit with everything in place. Shaking his head, John tossed the documents in his hand to the table and leaned back to rub his face.

“We’ll find him, John,” Mycroft said softly as he stood next to John’s chair, leaning over the table to look at pictures.

“I hope so,” John muttered and reached forward for his cup of tea.

“Sir, another video was just sent!” Anthea said and quickly worked on her laptop.

The maps on the large screen disappeared and was replaced with a new video. This time the video was split into two screens. One screen showed the back of Sherlock and the other was from the front to see his face. Sherlock was hanging from his wrists and his bare toes barely touched the floor. They had stripped him down to his pants and even those were already stained with blood. Cuts of various lengths and depths covered his trembling torso and back. Bruises marred the pale skin and the occasional puffs of air could be seen. Shamus Flannery was waving a small bottle under Sherlock’s hanging head until the detective’s head snapped up with a gasp and he blinked slowly while his lips starting moving. The camera couldn’t pick up the soft words. There was movement in one of the screens of a person reached their arm back and snapped it downwards. The double angles was an ingenious idea from the Flannery brothers. Everyone could see the strike and splitting of skin while also seeing Sherlock’s reaction to the pain. Sherlock’s body arched and a choked cry exploded from his lips when the strike landed. Before the next strike landed Sherlock he started talking louder. The words didn’t seem they were for Shamus or Rupert but just so Sherlock could hear himself talk.

“Gave me my first chemistry set when I was six. I burnt a hole in the carpet. Mummy was so mad. He took the - blame!” Sherlock yelled as the whip caught him across his lower back.

“On my tenth birthday-” strike and gasp “-he made me a birthday cake. Said it-” strike and soft yelp “-was from my parents.”

The next whip strike had him catch his breath and whimper before trying to relax his muscles. “Never knew that I knew he made it. Chocolate un-under his nails.”

Sherlock’s eyes were clenched as he spoke to himself. His breathing was becoming more labored as more pain was being inflicted upon his body. John was as close to crying as he could remember lately. This wonderful man that just recently had made Lestrade realize that he was appreciated and was doing a good job was being tortured with no real end in sight until his transport decided it had had enough. How long would that take? How long would it take to break Sherlock Holmes? John mused quietly and flinched at the next crack and expression on Sherlock’s face.

“I was eight and - ugh god - interested in mummifying tech-” strike and gasp “-techniques. Kept finding-” muffled sob “-books just placed around.”

Mycroft braced his arms on the desk and watched the video as the color drained from his face. The memories Sherlock was describing were etched in Mycroft’s mind. The times when they actually had a true brother-brother relationship. Before the wedge of age and differences were forced between them.

“Age fourteen, sick with flu and-” gasp “-cloth on my head. Played classical -”

At that point, Sherlock’s head slumped against his chest and the following strikes were to an unconscious body. Rupert stopped with the whip and the camera was fumbled before zooming in on Sherlock’s torn and bleeding back. John quietly hissed at the injuries and immediately his mind started providing methods of healing; stitches, painkillers, probable skin grafts, antibiotics, lots of painkillers. Four weeks of limited movement before healing to comfortable degree.

“How much longer do you think he’ll survive, Mr Holmes? A few hours? A few days? Let’s find out. Either you’ll get a new video. Or you’ll get a phone call about a body.”

The video cut out and the room was silent. Without a word, everyone started working on the new video and trying to figure out where it came from and if there were any clues in the audio or video to hint where Sherlock might be. Mycroft suddenly turned and left the conference room. John hesitated before following and letting the door close behind him. Mycroft and he were the closest things to family Sherlock had; well technically, one of them was family but more like extended and distant family member if you asked Sherlock. John found Mycroft standing in the hallway leaning against the wall with both his hands covering his face. John didn’t believe Mycroft was crying but just needed a breather; if Mycroft was crying then John might faint in shock.

“Mycroft? You alright, mate?”

Mycroft released a weak chuckle. The hands slowly slid from his face and hung at his sides. He stared at the opposite corner where the wall and ceiling met of the hallway. He didn’t look teary eyed but he looked drained.

“Sherlock was reciting memories from...our childhood. I thought he had deleted them all. He always implied that he deleted them all. Mummy and Father had left for holiday to the Continent; forgot about Sherlock’s birthday. Well they didn’t really forget, just got the date wrong by one day. I managed to bake him a cake and pretend our parents had sent it because their flight was delayed and couldn’t get in until after his birthday. I thought...thought he had believed it,” Mycroft muttered and John moved to lean against the wall next to him.

“Yeah, I find there’s a lot of stuff Sherlock says he has deleted but actually has it saved somewhere. I think it’s a self preservation thing,” John commented and reached up to gently rub the back of his head.

John let his hand drop and then his head thumped softly against the wall. It wasn’t like he wasn’t worried sick about Sherlock but they had been in bad situations before. His military training had served him well and he was able to compartmentalize overwhelming emotions and deal with the facts and what was happening at that moment. The video showed him a hurt and injured Sherlock, but he was still fighting. Once the video showed a sobbing and pleading Sherlock; that was when John knew they were in trouble. He just didn’t know how close they were to reaching that point.

“I envy you, John Watson. Doctor John Watson,” Mycroft mumbled and glanced at the shorter man from the corner of his eye before looking back to the opposite wall.

“How do you mean?”

“The relationship you have with my brother. Not the sexual one, of course; but the friendship and the closeness. The destroy everything in his path to get to you and to help you friendship. Sherlock and I use to have that.” Mycroft sighed wearily. “A long time ago we had that.”

John hesitated before speaking. Sherlock had always been reluctant to talk about Mycroft and his relationship. Said there were too many bad memories to sift through. John thought that was a load of crap but he wasn’t going to push. He knew there were some bad memories Sherlock had from his childhood. It was rare, but occasionally Sherlock would jerk awake with a haunted look in his eyes and it usually happened after a case with children. John wasn’t Sherlock level intelligent but a few things had rubbed off on him.

“What happened?”

“That memory he spoke of..having the flu. It started off as the flu but progressed to full blown pneumonia. It was during another time that Mummy and Father were gone. I was home for uni on break. A week’s worth of bad rain storms had washed out the roads. It was just the maid, cook and myself when Sherlock started to get worse. He couldn’t breath and we couldn’t get him to hospital. Thankfully the maid’s sister was a nurse and could tell us what needed to be done over the phone. While we were treating him, I found wounds on his body...self inflicted wounds. During his delirium...he said things. Pleaded with someone not to hurt him. To stop.

“I thought we had the relationship that he could tell me anything. Used to. But then I realized he had been pulling away steadily for a while and he did it so slowly that I didn’t realize it. I realized it that night that there was a wedge between us and I didn’t know how to ease it. Sadly, I was too busy with my own life and plans that I didn’t notice how large the wedge had grown. His illness was the culmination. I discovered just how alone my brother was; how starved for attention and kindness he was. After he was better I went on a warpath for him. Yelled at Mummy and Father when they got back a week alter. Railed at his so called friends at school. I admit now that I overreacted at my own inability to protect my brother. He became more of an outcast than he already was because of me. Then he left for uni.”

John nodded, having a good idea where the story went from here. “At uni he found drugs.”

“No, he found drugs a year or two before that. But uni is where he found the cocaine. His drug of choice,” Mycroft muttered and dropped his gaze to glare at the carpet like it had personally affronted him.

“You tried to get him help. To get him off it.”

Mycroft nodded. “And he saw it as me interfering and being an overbearing brother. Wanting him to be the perfect brother for his politically savvy elder sibling that everyone was proud of. To be more like the perfect first son, instead of the..instead of himself...instead of Sherlock.”

John sighed and a depressing sadness filled the void between the two men. Sibling rivalry at its worst, John mused before taking a deep breath and pushing away from the wall. They had work to do.

“Come on, Mycroft. They might have something for us. Something we can use to find Sherlock.”

Mycroft looked over at John and the doctor was startled to see the emotion in the older Holmes’ eyes.

“I do care for my brother, John. Even if I show it in strange ways. I’ve always cared for him.”

“I know that, Mycroft. And Sherlock does too, somewhere deep inside that palace of his. But he has been shunned and used by so many people in his life that he started to think everyone was like that. That he was only good for being used and thrown away. Instead of picking out the good ones, he cast everyone in the bad lot. Alone is what protects him, he use to say. But it’s still being alone and he’s finally realizing that maybe it’s good to have someone in his corner.

“Now come on. We can all have a therapy session once we get Sherlock back.”

Mycroft grinned weakly before standing and taking a deep breath. Putting his ‘in control’ face back on, he opened the door and went back into the room. John followed and almost ran into Mycroft’s broad back.

“Freeze frame!” Mycroft snapped before walking around the table to get closer to the screen.

The image froze and showed three men walking down a sidewalk in somewhere downtown London. John recognized the other two Flannery brothers but the third was a mystery to him.

“What video is this?”

“Last week of surveillance on the Flannery brothers. Nothing unusual on the log reports.”

“Zoom in on the sleeves,” Mycroft ordered and waited as his order was obeyed.

“What do you see, Mycroft?” John asked as he neared the screen.

“His sleeves. Construction workers roll their sleeves up this way. Rolled in instead of out. Prevents debris from falling between the fabric. In the last video of Sherlock, Shamus had his sleeves still rolled like that Does either of their employment history show construction work?”

“Rupert’s shows occasional work as an electrical contractor.”

John held up a hand and looked at Mycroft before. “Your right, Mycroft. I treated a construction worker at the surgery a few weeks ago that had his sleeves rolled this way. Said it also prevented the risk of catching fire to work shirts when welding was going on.” John turned and pointed to one of the assistants with a laptop. “Use the dates of the week this video was taken and do a search for construction permits valid during those dates. Narrow the search by using companies or firms that Rupert Flannery worked with or for. Narrow it even further by searching for jobs that required welding.”

“Total of four job sites.”

“Put a map up and show the sites,” Mycroft ordered and stepped back to get the bigger pictures.

A map of London appeared and four red dots appeared. All were in different parts of the city. John stared at it for a moment before snapping his fingers.

“Search through the raw materials ordered and sent to each job site and look for soundproofing materials.”

Mycroft glanced at John and the doctor blushed slightly as he shrugged his shoulders. “Sherlock can be vocal.”

Mycroft snorted and watched as four dots reduced to two dots. Can’t waste time on searching two separate buildings with multiple floors and possible spook the Flannery brothers. Needed to narrow it further.

“Are both buildings still being worked on actively?”

That took a few more minutes but a young woman soon spoke up. “Office building at 1226 Ashmore. Construction temporarily terminated a week and a half ago because of lack of funding.”

“Get the site manager here with a detailed blueprint, now! Have a special operations team ready to mobilize within two hours.”

Everything started happening quickly during the next hour as a disheveled site manager appeared clutching a thick roll of blue prints. A special operative appeared dressed all in black and stood quietly by the door as John and Mycroft pored over the blueprints.

“What rooms needed the soundproofing measure you had delivered?”

“All rooms on floors 6 and 7. They were going to market them to radio stations, recording studio and the like.”

“Are all of them done? Or just a few of them?” John asked and looked over the blueprints for those two floors.

“All were in varying degrees of completion when I last was there. There are two rooms that were completed entirely so they could be shown to the possible investors.”

John turned slightly to face Mycroft. “He must be in one of those two rooms. The site is closed down, no one to notice two men coming and going. The room is soundproof so no one can hear Sherlock scream from outside. They worked the site so they have keys, access cards and know the best way in and out. It is in the direction the van first started heading once they took Sherlock. It’s our best bet given our limited time frame.”

Mycroft agreed and the special operative stepped forward because this was where he excelled. He didn’t balk when Mycroft insisted that John and he would be part of the team going in. He only radioed for two sets of kevlar vests and two weapons with silencers. The other five special operatives were waiting in a two black vans down on the street when the three of them emerged from the building. It was dusk and still misting rain as the vans started off. John and Mycroft strapped on the kevlar vests and checked their handguns. John wasn’t that surprised that Mycroft knew how to handle a handgun or knew how to clear a building. He was almost never surprised by what a Holmes knew. They were both given throat microphones with headsets to communicate with the other operatives. They would split between two teams; Mycroft went with the blue team and John went with the red team. Their reasoning was each team needed someone that Sherlock knew and would hopefully recognize.

It was dark by the time they slowed to a stop a block away from the building. Anthea had reported in and said another video had been sent. Her short clipped words hinted that the abuse Sherlock was suffering was much worse. She suggested that they hurry and have a medical kit on hand. The medic on the team surrendered his kit to John and the former army surgeon strapped it tightly to his back after looking through it. The medic also listed off the supplies that the pack contained and John absentmindedly nodded as he checked his weapon again. The medical part of his brain was cataloging the supplies but that would be needed later. Now, he was Captain Watson, not Doctor Watson. The pack’s weight was no more than he carried in the army so he was ready. Two of the other operatives led the way since they had night vision capabilities and motioned the rest of the crew after them. They cut the fencing and slipped through into the construction site. Stacks of wood, steel and machinery was scattered around as they quietly moved to the base of the building. The two teams split and cleared the ground floor before meeting up at the stairs and proceeding to the first floor. It took time but they slowly cleared each floor as they neared the sixth. They wanted no chance of being caught unaware by someone coming up behind them.

They were almost finished with the sixth floor when a familiar man exited a room and froze at the sight of the special operations team standing twelve feet away from him. John recognized Shamus Flannery and immediately fired two shots into his chest and one to his head. The muffled pops preceded the sound of a body hitting the floor. His small team moved forward as he slowly knelt to feel for a pulse while he kept his eyes up on the hallway. The team cleared the room Shamus came out of which turned out where the brothers must have been sleeping. John stood and shook his head before reaching for his throat communicator.

“Shamus Flannery is deceased.”

There was a single click as his words were acknowledged by the other team. Mycroft’s team was already on the seventh floor. Some of the rooms either had no doors or the doors were opened to show empty rooms. One of the completed rooms had the door closed. Mycroft’s team stacked on the door and prepared the breech. One operative quietly tried opening the door first before they tried breaking it down. The knob turned easily in his hand and he started pushing it open. The break in the seal allowed a noise to slip free. An agonising scream which broke off at the sound of flesh on flesh. A choked gurgle before a harsh slap. The door continued to open as Mycroft finished pushing it open and stepped in. He ignored his brother and focused on the back of Rupert Flannery. Mycroft calmly fired one shot into Rupert Flannery’s lower back. The bullet tore through his spinal column and his legs crumpled underneath him. He hit the floor with a gasp and twisted to try and see what was behind him. Mycroft walked up to him calmly and looked down at the man.

“Mycroft Holmes,” Rupert ground out with thick fury.

“Join your brothers, Rupert. Go in peace.”

Mycroft fired two shots into his chest and watched the light die in Rupert Flannery’s eyes. He holstered his gun and went to Sherlock’s side.

“One of you help me lower him and call an ambulance. The rest of you search the rest of the floor. Get John in here,” he snapped and carefully wrapped his arms around Sherlock to support his weight.

Mycroft locked his emotions away and vowed to evaluate them later. When he could afford to. The chain was released and he slowly lowered both of them to the ground. Blood was already seeping through his shirt sleeves as he cradled his little brother in his arms. Mycroft easily picked the locks on the cuffs encircling Sherlock’s wrists and he gently eased them off. Pieces of skin came with the cuffs and Mycroft cast them aside before lowering Sherlock’s arms to his sides. Sherlock hissed at the change of movement and weakly opened his eyes and blinked to clear his vision.

“My?”

Mycroft flinched at the rough voice and he quickly soothed Sherlock. “It’s alright, Sherlock. John and I are here. We’ll get you fixed up.”

Sherlock’s breathing was ragged and Mycroft could hear gurgling everytime he exhaled. Sherlock’s gaze roved raggedly around the room and he visibly struggled to make sense of the events.

“You...came for...me?”

“Of course I did, ‘Lock. I’d never leave you alone.”

Sherlock’s eyelids fluttered close and he slipped back into unconsciousness just as John hurried through the door. He didn’t say anything as he unslung the medic kit from his back. The special ops team’s medic appeared to help John as he dumped the kit out on the floor. Mycroft gently cradled Sherlock’s head as the other two men worked frantically on Sherlock.

“Blood pressure is dangerously high. He’s approaching tachycardia.”

“Right lung is punctured. Air is slowly filling the cavity. Small puncture; not immediately critical,” John muttered while listening to Sherlock’s lungs with a stethoscope. “What kind of pain killers do you have in the kit?”

“Flupirtine.”

“Give him 10cc of it. I need a shock blanket and a back board. Someone call an ambulance,” John snapped and accepted the shock blanket that appeared at his shoulder.

“Already called, John.”

John glanced up at Mycroft and watched as the older Holmes gently brushed aside one of Sherlock’s limp curls. Turning his attention back to Sherlock, John prepped everything he needed for intubation before nudging Mycroft aside. He needed a clear airway before they tried to move Sherlock.

“I lost the pulse!”

At those words, John’s head snapped up to look at the medic. Memory took over as he looked over his lover’s body.

“Charge defibrillator to 200 and put the pads on him. I’ll finish intubation,” John snapped and shifted his grip on the laryngoscope.

His mind started counting down the accepted length of time a person could be without a heartbeat and recover from it. Clearing the airway, he slipped the tracheal tube down the trachea and withdrew the stylet and quickly inflated the cuff. Grabbing a bag valve, he attached it to the end and gave a few puffs.

“Clear!”

Everyone’s hands went up as the medic hit the bright red button. Sherlock’s body jerked and relaxed. John grabbed the bag with one hand to provide a few pumps while his other hand felt for a carotid pulse.

“Charge again to 250. Clear!”

Sherlock’s body jerked and relaxed before John reached for the bag and the neck again. He nodded happily and continued to squeeze the bag every six seconds. He wasn’t consciously counting but his mind and muscle followed the basic routine. A back board appeared and the three men gently slid it under the detective’s limp body. Mycroft covered Sherlock with the shock blanket and tucked it around the chilled body.

The next four hours passed in a blur. The ambulance came, the special operations team disappeared with three bodies. Apparently the Flannery brothers had roped in an old childhood friend to help out. The ambulance raced them to the nearest hospital and Sherlock was whisked away. Mycroft and John were left in the waiting room of the A&E wearing kevlar vests and holstered handguns. It was another hour and a half until they were allowed to see Sherlock. Anthea had stepped in and arranged for Sherlock to be placed in the private critical care ward. The room was large and had the one hospital bed and a comfortable looking single bed pushed against the wall. At a small desk against the other wall sat a private nurse who was making notations on Sherlock’s chart. She handed the chart to John without a word and John raised an eyebrow.

“A Miss Anthea filled me in on you Doctor Watson. I’m to follow all of your directions in regard to Mr. Holmes’ care and ask no questions. We currently have him in a medically induced coma and he is currently stable. If he remains stable and there are no complications after twenty-four hours then we will decrease the propofol so he can wake up. I’ll be right outside in the hall if you need me.”

John nodded while reading through the file. The door closed quietly behind the nurse as John walked over to the bed. Mycroft stood on the opposite side of the bed, looking down at his little brother. While the staff had been treating him, they also cleaned him up the best they could. The blood was washed away but doing so had revealed the deep bruising scattered along his body. The bandages covered the bleeding wounds but not the bruising. Mycroft sadly flashed back to the other times he saw bruises on his brother. After classmates beat him for being different; for pointing out everyone else’s flaws. The bruises he left on himself from his various drug use. He was still; stiller than normal. Mycroft remembered the odd sleeping positions he has found Sherlock in over the years. He moved and spread out in his sleep. He draped himself over the bed. He wondered if Sherlock still did that now that he and John shared a bed. His face was slack due to the drugs and dried blood still clung to the dark strands of his hair.

The sheet was pulled up to his waist and the gown hung loosely on him. The chest tube emerged from under the edge of the gown. Mycroft sighed and glanced up as the door opened to admit Anthea. She pointedly looked at both of them and held out a hand. They relinquished their vests and firearms before she handed a notebook to Mycroft. She left just as quietly as she appeared and left the two men to look over their charge. The private nurse came back in and went to her desk.

John took the first watch and let Mycroft crash on the single bed. There were no changes over the next few hours. When it was Mycroft’s turn to watch over Sherlock, he started up the notebook and saw the message Anthea had left him. ‘They kept the camera recording when they weren’t in the room with him. Thought you would want to listen.’

Mycroft slipped in a pair of headphones and sat in the chair angled to face Sherlock. Mentally preparing himself, he brought up the file and started playing the recordings. He fast forwarded through times when Sherlock was unconscious. Most of it was the same as before, Sherlock reciting memories from Mycroft’s and his childhood.  Memories that Mycroft himself had forgotten. Memories of the two of them playing; happier times. Sometimes he would talk about John and memories of the doctor and their times together. About cases they had solved; things he wanted to do with John, places he wanted to go. Towards the end, it changed. Once Rupert and Shamus left the room, Sherlock hung there for a moment before he glanced towards the camera.

“I-I can only...predict...they’ll send these rec-recordings to you...after I’m dead. I nev-never blamed you, My. All...my life I th-thought you were...trying to control me when you were really...just trying to protect me. Pro-protect me the only way you...knew how. I wish I c-could have appreciated it for what it was. My brother...caring for me.”

Sherlock breathed shallowly and groaned as he rolled his head. His eyes closed temporarily as tried getting his breath back.

“All the sarcasm...sharp comments...just bluster to hide how bad-badly I screwed up. Screwed up our relation-relationship. How I’m still trying to...make my big brother proud of me. After ev-everything I’ve done...to push you away...and you...you’re always there...there when I needed you. I want you to know that I appreciate...everything you’ve done for me. Please...take care of-take care of John for me. Tell him to-to keep living. Tell him...I love him...and...I love you too My. You’re my big brother...always...have.”

The monologue seemed to have drained Sherlock and he slumped against his restraints as consciousness deserted him. Mycroft snapped the notebook shut and took a deep breath. He jerked off the earphones and rubbed a hand over his mouth as tears stung his eyes. He stood and set the notebook on the chair he just vacated. Standing next to the bed, he gently brushed his fingertips over Sherlock’s forehead and brushed aside a few stray locks.

“Sherlock, I will always be in your corner. I will always fight for you. I will always protect you. That’s what friends and family do. They protect each other even when they don’t want it. I will always be there for you, little brother. All you need to do is ask. Just say something and I will be there for you.”

Mycroft leaned forward and gently kissed Sherlock’s forehead. John grinned and tapped his mobile to stop the video recording. Maybe they could bypass the therapy sessions once he showed this to Sherlock and make the stubborn detective talk to his brother. He snuggled deeper into the single bed and easily slipped into an exhausted sleep.

 

(!)(!)(!)

 

Thirty-six hours later, Mycroft walked down the hospital’s hallway dressed in his customary suit and vest with his umbrella. Sherlock had woken up six hours earlier with no complications. He was extubated and examined. His prognosis was good so Mycroft left Sherlock in John’s care while he went home to shower and freshen up. Dealing with some critical issues that had come up while he was searching for Sherlock,  Mycroft know had a few free hours to visit his brother and ensure he was comfortable and healing. He briskly knocked on the door before pushing it open to find John and Sherlock talking quietly. John glanced at him and smiled before looking back to Sherlock.

“I’m going to go home and get cleaned up a bit. I’ll talk to Mrs. Hudson and clue her in on what’s been going on and bring back a change of cloths for you. Be nice and remember what I told you,” John said pointedly before leaning forward and softly kissing Sherlock.

Sherlock stared at Mycroft once John was gone. Mycroft had his armor back up so the intense stare didn’t ruffle him. He would never tell Sherlock that he had seen the rest of the videos. It would possibly shatter the tenuous relationship they had. Mycroft couldn’t lose any more ground.

“How are you feeling? Do you need anything?” he asked and saw something in Sherlock’s eyes flicker.

Sherlock held out a mobile with a video pulled up and reading to play. Seeing the first frame was enough for Mycroft to know exactly what it was. Apparently John wasn’t as deeply asleep as Mycroft thought he was that night. Nothing showed on his face as he tapped the play icon. The quiet voice could barely be heard but the words were clear. The video reached the end and he held it a moment before handing it back to Sherlock.

“What would you like me to say, Sherlock? I’m sure you can delete th-”

Sherlock’s weak wave at him stopped Mycroft from speaking. There was silence again before Sherlock started speaking softly.

“I’m sure you’ve seen the videos. I don’t want to talk about them. Just…” Sherlock glanced around uncomfortably, not looking at Mycroft.

Sherlock seemed to make a decision and looked up at Mycroft. “Once I get out here...if you have a moment to spare from starting wars or toppling governments...want to have tea...or lunch...or something?”

Mycroft’s eyes widened slightly at the quick flash of a young Sherlock flashed through his mind. That hopeful look from a little brother to his big brother. Hoping for approval. Hoping for a better relationship than what they had. Not perfect...but better. Better brothers. Mycroft could do better. Anything for his little brother.

“I’d like that, Sherlock. I really would.”

Maybe Mycroft would get the better relationship he had hoped and prayed for. Maybe small miracles did happen to Mycroft Holmes.

 


	4. Cooking

No one who cooks, cooks alone. Even at her most solitary, a cook in the kitchen is surrounded by generations of cooks past, the advice and menus of cooks present, the wisdom of cookbook writers.-Laurie Colwin

 

“These people must have a connection, John! There’s something I’m not seeing!” Sherlock snapped as he paced in front of the wall.

Lestrade had called him in on a serial murder case when the third victim had been found. The bodies had been discovered in three unrelated locations around London. Two men and one woman. The murder weapons were unidentified for each victim and each weapon was different. The only thing that made it a serial killer was all the victims were found stripped bare. Lestrade was of the thought that maybe it wasn’t a serial murderer. Sherlock had insisted it was. John was at the desk looking over printouts trying to find something to connect the victims. The wall behind the couch was covered in pictures of the crime scenes, witness statements and a large map of downtown London. Sherlock had been pushing hard for two days working on the case. John normally wouldn’t worry about two days but before that Sherlock had been tortured and almost died. John highly doubted if Sherlock’s body could go for much longer without a rest. John just had to be sure he was nearby to scoop Sherlock off the floor.

“Well they didn’t work together, didn’t live near each other, didn’t ride the same tube route, didn’t anything near each other,” John said and tossed the papers on the desk before leaning back to rub at his face.

“Where could three complete strangers meet a murderer and somehow be connected with each other?”

Sherlock continued to pace while propping one fist on his hip while the other ruffled his hair. John sighed and looked at his mobile to check the time. It was time to change Sherlock’s bandages. Standing, John collected his kit and laid out what he might need; new bandages, tape, antiseptic. Flicking on the small desk lamp, he directed the light towards the chair and glanced over everything. It had been two weeks since Sherlock had gotten out of hospital and the wounds were healing well. Hopefully, today John could leave some of the wounds unbandaged.

“Sherlock, come and sit down. I need to change your bandages.”

“No time, John. I need to figure this out,” Sherlock replied with a vague wave of his hand.

“You said no the last time and I let it slide. I need to change them now to prevent any late term infection,” John said firmly and pulled out a chair while pointing to it.

“Not now. Later.”

John sighed and glanced in his bag to see what he could use to maybe drug the stubborn detective in submission. Maybe he could slip something into his tea. No chance of slipping it into food. Sherlock would get suspicious of that if John pushed too hard for him to eat it. Couldn’t go out to a restaurant because he needed to change the bandages here, not at a restaurant. John paused his thought stream, and glanced over at Sherlock. Seeing that the detective was fully involved in the wall, John pulled out the three autopsy files and started searching. Finding the information he wanted, John shifted to his laptop and started searching. He went back to the case files and read over the information. It was ten minutes later that John found his answer. Smiling brightly, he put the laptop back into sleep mode and put away the autopsy and case files before clearing his throat.

“Sherlock?”

The detective either ignored him or just didn’t hear him. John approached and touched Sherlock’s elbow. He was shrugged off but at least he snagged a small bit of Sherlock’s vast attention.

“Sit down so I can look at your wounds.”

“Can’t John. Too busy.”

“Sit down and I’ll tell you how the three victims are connected.”

That comment stilled the tall man and he slowly turned his head to look down at John. Sherlock’s gaze rove over John, looking for a clue about what he missed and John had found. John remained where he was and let the detective look him over. He knew nothing on him would provide Sherlock with what he was looking for. It was a wild, random thought that got his mind thinking about it. Sherlock didn’t do wild, random thoughts; he followed logic. John took the occasional wild leap of knowledge and sometimes landed on the answer. He wasn’t sure if his idea was the only way the victims were connected but it was the only one they had found so far.

John motioned towards the chair and saw the moment that Sherlock submitted. His shoulders dropped a bit and he walked to the chair while unbuttoning his shirt. Repressing his smile, John followed and started at Sherlock’s back once pulling on a pair of gloves. He gently untaped the multiple bandages and peeled away the bandages to start a small pile on the desk. His lips pressed into a thin line once all the wounds along the pale back were bared to his eyes. They were not healing as well as John would have liked. Once Sherlock had gotten an interesting case his well being had fallen to the back burner and now John was seeing the proof of that. There wasn’t any infection but some were looking irritated. The constant movement of Sherlock’s body on a case and his clothing rubbing over the wounds had started to irritate the healing wounds. John started to treat and bandage the worse wounds and elected to leave a few bare. Shifting, he moved to Sherlock’s front and knelt to look closer to Sherlock’s chest. The stab wound on his shoulder looked good as did the other whip marks.

“Anything you need to tell me? Lightheadedness? Nausea? Blurred vision? Exhaustion?”

“John.”

“Why don’t you get a few hours of sleep? Your body is still healing and needs all the rest you can spare.”

“John.”

John sighed and looked down at the dark haired detective. He was still sitting there with his shirt draped over his lap. His hands were braced at the top of his thighs and John’s eyes skimmed over the lithe body. Since getting out of hospital, John had locked down all thoughts of sex while Sherlock healed. The first week, Sherlock had been out of it on painkillers and slept most days. The second week, Sherlock had stopped the painkillers and was so stiff and grumpy that John tried his best to stay out of the way unless necessary. Sherlock had gotten the call from Lestrade and now they were on their first case since hospital. Any chance of distracting Sherlock enough to seduce him? Or seducing him to distraction? Probably not. The hard look Sherlock was giving him was more like a ‘definitely not’.

Packing away his kit while Sherlock pulled his shirt back on, John pulled over the other chair and sat in it before pulling his laptop and the autopsy files towards him.

“I had a thought and started reading through the autopsy reports for all three victims. I was interested in their stomach contents. Simmons had traces of Mollusca Gastropoda and garlic butter. Berry had remains of Bovidae. Leslie had traces of Lutjanus with paprika,” John said and held up each autopsy file as he listed off the victims.

John could easily see the confusion in Sherlock’s eyes at words that he normally didn’t use. They weren’t important enough for the ‘hard drive’.

“Combine these things with a few other basic ingredients and you have unique dishes. Escargot for Simmons. Antelope for Berry and snapper for Leslie. Where do all three of these things coincide?”

John opened his laptop and turned it to show Sherlock. It was the webpage for the restaurant Preseco. John clicked on a tab and the menu appeared.

“All three of those dishes, or variations, appear on Preseco’s menu. Berry was a chef at another restaurant, so it’s logical to reason that she knew the chef at Preseco. Nothing appeared on her credit card statement, because she never paid. Might have had something set up like we have at Angelos.

“Simmons was a reporter but was filling in for the food critic with the Telegraph so he would have eaten there. Again, not on his financial history because critics almost never pay for the food. Or he used the paper’s card to pay for it; which we didn’t look at because we had no need for it.

“Leslie worked in the hotel business. Hotels and restaurants have a very close connection because of tourists coming to the city. Leslie was a member of an organization that visited restaurants every month to experience them. Again, no financial history because they didn’t pay.

“The only thing connecting them is the food they ate. Or where they ate it. We didn’t look at the stomach contents because they weren’t poisoned.”

Throughout John’s monologue Sherlock’s gaze had darted between the autopsy files, the laptop and to John’s face before starting the cycle again. John could see the connections being made in Sherlock’s mind as he processed the information and the spark burning brighter in Sherlock’s eyes. John sat back to avoid being injured in Sherlock’s eventual surge from his chair in sudden realization. It would happen. The connection would blaze brightly once he made it and he would be a whirlwind of energy, tearing apart anything in his way.

John was therefore very surprised when Sherlock suddenly lunged at him and held his head while he plundered John’s mouth. John squeaked in surprise but it was quickly swallowed by Sherlock’s mouth as he did amazing things with his tongue. John finally unfroze and grabbed Sherlock’s sharp hips to pull the man towards him. Sherlock quickly straddled John’s lap and ground his hips into the man below him. John hissed sharply at the frantic rut. Apparently Sherlock was missing the sex as much as John had been.

“Sherlock, couch, table, bed; something other than this chair,” John muttered between kisses as his hands started pulling the shirt tail from Sherlock’s pants so he could touch bare skin.

“You are brilliant, John. Completely and amazingly brilliant. I don’t care what anyone else says about you,” Sherlock murmured and John huffed in amusement.

Wrapping his arms under Sherlock’s arse, John rocked backwards and forwards for a moment before surging to his feet with Sherlock in his arms and Sherlock’s legs wrapping around his waist. He groaned as Sherlock’s hands wandered everywhere he could reach. Sherlock was mumbling against his skin as John staggered out of the sitting room and moved towards Sherlock’s bedroom.

“So intoxicating...when you surprise...me. Show that...bright moment...of blinding intelligence. Makes...me want to...mark you...as all mine.”

John groaned and stopped in the hallway to pin Sherlock against the wall. “I am yours. All yours. Only yours.”

Sherlock growled and tilted his head to kiss along John’s throat. He nibbled, bit and sucked at a spot just under John’s ear to leave a damp red mark that would bruise wonderfully. Sherlock’s head thumped against the wall as John rutted against him while keeping him pinned to the wall. John’s hips kept Sherlock against the wall and let his hands slide under the shirt to tweak the dusky nipples. The throaty groan rumbled through Sherlock’s chest and in turn rumbled through John’s. John quickly started unbuttoning Sherlock’s shirt before sliding his arms under the back of Sherlock’s thighs. Standing again with Sherlock in his arms, he felt Sherlock frantically roll his shoulders to pull the shirt off and snapped it off his left arm to land somewhere the hallway. John’s medical mind spared a fleeting thought for the wounds but decided that what they were about to do would exhaust Sherlock’s already tired body and allow him a few hours of rest.

Staggering into their bedroom, John lowered Sherlock to the ground and started to undress the detective while Sherlock started to undress John. It took a few minutes longer than normal because they wouldn’t stop kissing each other to look at what they were doing. Both of them were finally nude and Sherlock started to pull John towards the bed. Wrapping one arm around Sherlock’s waist, John grabbed the lube with his other hand and started to pull Sherlock away from the bed and towards the wall.

“Trust me,” John murmured between kisses as he felt his back hit the wall. “Put your hands on the wall and lean into it.”

Sherlock did as he was asked and groaned as John started kissing down his chest. His tongue circled one of Sherlock’s nipples before he gently nibbled on it with his teeth. Sherlock enjoyed a slight hint of pain which was obvious at the strangled groan when he threw his head back in bliss. John continued his kisses down the pale body as he easily went to his knees. He wouldn’t be able to stay here for long but they didn’t need a lot of time. He sensed Sherlock widening his stance, anticipating what was coming next. John placed open mouthed kisses around Sherlock’s groin and dragged his tongue up the inside of Sherlock’s long pale thigh. He paused and waited until Sherlock’s head dropped forward and he opened his eyes to see what was taking John so long. Holding his lover’s gaze, John licked up the underside of Sherlock’s cock and let him see everything. Sherlock’s eyelids fluttered close and he whimpered at the sensation and sight of his lover. While John was licking Sherlock’s cock, he flipped open the lube top and coated three of his fingers. Just as John wrapped his lips around the head, he slipped a finger into Sherlock’s tight entrance.

“Oh, god...yesss,” Sherlock hissed and rocked his hips forward.

John groaned around the cock in his mouth and felt Sherlock’s breath catch at the sensation as he timed his finger movements with his mouth. Sherlock’s body was trembling as John added another finger and gently stretched him out. He brushed a firm finger against Sherlock’s prostate and the detective’s hips surged forward with a choked cry. Panting John’s name, one of Sherlock’s hands dropped to John’s head and he carded his fingers through the short blonde hair. He wasn’t trying to control, he wanted a connection.

When Sherlock was keening loudly and he was shuddering trying to prevent his body from thrusting too hard, John withdrew and gently rubbed his hands up and down Sherlock’s long thighs.

“Bed; I want you to ride me.”

Sherlock weakly nodded as John stood up and kissed him while moving them towards the bed. John slicked up his cock and crawled to the center of the bed, laying flat with a pillow bunched under his head so he could watch Sherlock. He admired the pale body as Sherlock crawled over the bed towards him with blown pupils and flushed skin. Despite the healing wounds and fading bruises he was still gorgeous, John mused to himself. The wounds only made him love Sherlock even more. He was thrilled to know that only he could see this side of Sherlock. Only he could do this to Sherlock, the great consulting detective. And that Sherlock would only let John see this, trust him to see himself like this.

Sherlock moved to straddle John and guided John’s cock to his relaxed entrance. Both men groaned as Sherlock lowered himself onto the thick cock. John gently kneaded Sherlock’s thighs and felt them tighten as Sherlock lifted himself up and lowered again. John groaned at the tight, warm heat and slowly bent and spread his knees to provide support to Sherlock and gently thrust into him. Sherlock’s head was thrown back as he continued to fuck himself. He was groaning and keening mindlessly with his black curls plastered to his forehead with sweat. John reached down and tightly wrapped his hand around Sherlock’s cock. His grip tightened and stroked rhythmically with his own thrusts so to Sherlock’s lust addled brain it seemed he was fucking himself. John felt himself spiraling towards an orgasm but tightened his control to make sure Sherlock orgasmed first.

“John! More...need you...now...please...more!” Sherlock whimpered suddenly.

Pressing his heels into the mattress, John thrust his hips upwards and pounded into Sherlock’s willing body.

Four deep thrusts later and Sherlock screamed as he orgasmed and exploded over John’s chest. The pulsing around John’s cock was his ending as his fingers dug into Sherlock’s hips and pulled him down. His vision whited out as he growled and bit his bottom lip. He blinked slowly as awareness came back to him and found Sherlock’s arms braced on either side of his head and his torso suspended over him. Sherlock’s forehead was pressed against John’s shoulder and John could feel warm, moist breath ghosting over his sensitive skin.

“How’s your back?” John asked softly and gently moved his hands over the long, pale back.

He carefully brushed over the bandaged wounds and pressed a hand to Sherlock’s lower back.

“Hmm, tingling like the rest of me,” Sherlock murmured and chuckled softly.

Sherlock lifted himself off John and grabbed a couple of Kleenex to clean each of them off before he stretched out on his stomach next to John. He groaned into the pillow as his body relaxed and his mind reluctantly followed.

“You killed me, John. My brain...is shutting down.”

John chuckled before shifting to softly kiss Sherlock’s bare shoulder. “You’re body is still healing and using all its energy for that. At least now I won’t have to drug you.”

Sherlock just mumbled in response as he slipped into exhausted slumber. John smiled and slowly slipped out of bed while closely watching Sherlock’s face for any hint of waking again. It was only late afternoon, so John could let Sherlock sleep while he got some stuff done around the flat. He pulled the duvet up to Sherlock’s shoulders and gently brushed aside a few stray curls from his closed eyes before standing and pulling on his clothing. He tightly closed the blinds and curtains to shut out the lights and put on a soft classical CD. He knew the best ways of keeping Sherlock passed out. Yes, violin music let him think but classical compositions makes him almost catatonic if he’s asleep when he hears it. Light completely blocked and room almost pitch black. He closed the door behind him and smiled to himself as he walked down the hallway.

 

(!)(!)(!)

 

Sherlock snuffled softly and buried his head deeper into his pillow that smelled pleasantly of John. His body was nice and warm and beyond relaxed. He didn’t want to move to disturb any of it. Classical piano was playing in the background and it was just like the piece that was playing in his mind palace. Nice dim mind palace. His palace and brain were beautifully quiet and moving slowly like John’s jelly. John’s jelly? John. His left eyelid popped open and he looked around the room confused. It was his bedroom and there was a soft light coming from behind his curtains. He only got light at that angle towards mid morning. His last memory was of John kissing his shoulder after an enthusiastic romp in the bed. During evening hours.

Bringing his arms under his torso, he pushed himself up onto his elbows and glanced around his room. Mobile not where it usually was; pajamas tossed onto the nearby chair as well as his robe. There was a glass of water and juice on the bedside table. Seeing the liquid made Sherlock realize just how dry his mouth was. Pushing himself up higher, he moved his legs to the side of the bed and sat on the edge. Drinking the glass of water quickly, he slowly stood and shuffled over to the chair and pulled on his pajama bottoms and loose tee shirt. Slipping on his robe, he went to the loo to relieve himself before going back to collect the glass of juice. He padded barefoot from his bedroom and into the sitting room. No one in the sitting room. He turned and looked into the kitchen to see John sitting at the table reading the paper and drinking a cup of tea with a plate of toast by his elbow. Sherlock turned and looked out the large front windows while sipping the juice. The sounds from the street and what he saw confirmed his earlier thought; it was the next morning. He roughly estimated that he had slept for about nine hours; practically unheard of. Glaring at John, he walked to the table and grabbed John’s last piece of toast. There, that should show him. John smirked before folding the paper and taking a sip of his tea before standing and starting to fix Sherlock a cup of tea.

“I did some research on Preseco and the restaurant is actually owned by an old army buddy of mine. His name is Brad Miggle, use to be an MP at my base. I contacted him and told him what is going on. Since all three victims so far had some sort of connection to the restaurant, the suspect must work at the restaurant or visit it regularly as a vendor. So we need someone undercover at the restaurant. He is open to bringing us both in as new employees. I was a waiter back when I was in Uni so I have experience for that. You, on the other hand, might be problematic,” John said and set the mug in front of Sherlock.

“I’ve done plenty of undercover work,” Sherlock commented and blew on the hot liquid before sipping from the mug.

John hesitated before speaking. “I love you, Sherlock, but you’ve never worked a day in a real job in your life. Since I’m going to be in the front of house, you would be best in the back of house. Meaning the kitchen.”

John stopped and watched as Sherlock registered what he just said. When Brad had suggested putting Sherlock on the line as a cook, John just had to glance around their kitchen before the horror of the suggestion really hit him. But where else could they put Sherlock that he wouldn’t stand out and still be able to watch everything going on? John knew how intelligent Sherlock was. Mummy Holmes had actually showed John the test scores at the last Christmas Party. But could the genius be able to grasp the intricacies of being a cook at a high end restaurant. He had eaten at them certainly but being on the other side of the line? John didn’t know if it would turn into a three ring circus or a train wreck or both.

“Well, cooking is just science. It’ll be easy,” Sherlock said with a wave of his hand that wasn’t hold the mug.

“No, Sherlock. Baking is science with exact amounts. Cooking is more about intuition, instinct and creativity. Logic is not always involved. I think you should talk to some of the Chefs at Le Cordon Bleu and get some experience. You’re a genius so it shouldn’t take long.”

Sherlock make a face but eventually agreed. Sherlock quickly showered and was off to meet with Lestrade at the cooking school. John had printed out Preseco’s menu so Sherlock could learn how to cook each item and sent the list with Sherlock. John typed up the newest notes on the case and saved it; ready to be posted to his blog once the case was closed. He sent off a few emails and cleaned up the kitchen just before hearing a gentle knock on the door and Mrs. Hudson’s sing song voice.

“John, Sherlock? Anyone home?”

“In the kitchen, Mrs. Hudson,” John called and wiped his hands clean as he turned to see Mrs. Hudson come into view.

“Oh, John, thank goodness you’re home. I need some help in my kitchen if you don’t mind.”

“Of course, Mrs. Hudson,” John said and went to follow her back down the stairs.

“Thank you, dearie. I was just trying to get that large pan out but I can’t get down that far. Don’t ever get old, John, it’s no fun,” Mrs. Hudson said while pointing out the pan at the very back of the cabinet.

“Trust me, Mrs. Hudson, I’m trying my hardest not to,” John answered with a smile and went to his knees to lean into the cabinet.

Mrs. Hudson tutted and disappeared down the hallway where the postman just pushed through the mail. John had just placed the pan on the table and started to climb to his feet when  Mrs. Hudson came back into the kitchen reading over a letter. John immediately noticed the saddened expression on her face.

“What’s wrong, Mrs. Hudson?”

She looked up at him and glanced at the pan and back at the letter before looking back up at John. “Oh, nothing, dearie. Just some news from my sister.”

Memory flourished in John’s mind and he brightly smiled. “Right, your sister is coming up for your birthday and you two are going on a trip up the coast. That will be nice. You deserve a relaxing holiday.”

Mrs. Hudson’s gaze shifted to the side and John combined that reaction to her expression when she read the letter.

“What happened?”

Mrs. Hudson quickly shook her head. “Nothing bad. Her husband is taking her to Paris to see a play she’s always wanted to see. A late anniversary gift she says. She loves the theatre.”

John didn’t have Sherlock’s level of intelligence but he easily read the disappointment in Mrs. Hudson’s expression.

“I’m sorry, Mrs. Hudson. How about Sherlock and I take you out for your birthday? It’ll be fun.”

“Oh, don’t bother yourself, dearie. I wouldn’t want to intrude and slow you two down. Don’t bother yourself with a fuddy old lady,” Mrs. Hudson and shooed John out of the kitchen once handing him his portion of the mail.

John hesitated on the landing and glanced back at Mrs. Hudson’s door before heading up the stairs to his flat. Shortly after fixing himself a cup of tea, the door downstairs banged open and slammed shut. John sighed as footsteps stomped up the stairs and he set aside his cup of tea to face the wrath of Sherlock. The consulting detective come in in a whirl of Belstaff coat tails and scarf which went flying onto the couch.

“Those idiots!” Sherlock snapped and curled up on his chair with his arms crossed across his chest.

“What happened at the culinary school?”

“That Chef actually warned Lestrade to not let me in a kitchen...ever.”

John raised an eyebrow. He knew how this would go. Sherlock only made partial statements and wouldn’t elaborate. Usually because he knew the other person had a point that went against Sherlock’s thinking and Sherlock didn’t want to admit it. John also knew Sherlock Holmes and could only imagine what he had said to the Chef.

“What happened?”

Sherlock hesitated before speaking. “Nothing.”

That ‘nothing’ meant ‘something’; a big ‘something’ if John knew Sherlock.

“Sherlock.”

Sherlock glanced to the side and mumbled something which John missed. He leaned forward and looked closer at Sherlock. John’s eyes narrowed at his brief observations; he was learning from Sherlock. There was a faint scent of smoke; not really smoke like firewood smoke, but burnt something. Sherlock’s clothing was slightly disheveled; more disheveled than the detective usually allowed. John couldn’t see Sherlock’s hands but he knew there were probably blackened or singed marks.

“Did you set something on fire?” John asked and saw Sherlock’s eyes snap towards him before sliding away.

Confirmation.

“The chicken caught fire,” Sherlock mumbled and John snorted before he could control his giggle.

John struggled to control his laughter and breathed deeply before looking back up at Sherlock.

“You set a chicken on fire?”

Sherlock surged from his chair and paced the room. “He asked me to cook him a dish so he could see where my level of cooking ability was. I started making chicken parmesan. I’ve seen it on Angelo’s menu and figured it couldn’t be that difficult to make. It’s chicken, cheese and red sauce. Apparently, I miscalculated the amount of oil and the outcome of not using thawed chicken.”

“You put a frozen cutlet into hot oil? Amazing you didn’t burn down the building or injure anyone,” John commented and saw Sherlock’s momentary hesitation and John realized there was more.

“Sherlock?”

“Alright, fine; I used a frozen whole chicken. There was a small grease fire.”

John couldn’t remember the last time he almost hyperventilated from laughing too hard. Finally getting control of himself, he wheezed a few times before looking back up at Sherlock. The consulting detective looked put out at his lover laughing at him. John stood and walked to Sherlock to gently kiss him.

“I’m sorry I laughed. So, what’s the next step? Still want to try and learn or relegate yourself to busboy?”

Sherlock sneered at the thought of a Holmes being a busboy in a restaurant. He stared at the skull on the mantle before his hearing focused on the noises coming from the floor below them. He turned and looked to John as he raised his eyebrows. It took John a few moments to follow Sherlock’s string of thoughts. John shrugged his shoulders.

“I don’t know what Mrs. Hudson could teach you. You’d have to ask her.”

Sherlock grinned before dashing out of the room and down the stairs. He knocked briefly before opening the door to Mrs. Hudson’s flat.

“Mrs. Hudson? I need you to teach me how to cook restaurant quality dishes,” Sherlock called and saw the older woman come around the corner.

“Sherlock? What are you going on about?”

“I need to pretend to be a chef at a restaurant for a case but my cooking skills are...lacking,” Sherlock finished lamely and glanced back at the door he just barged through.

This was not a good idea, he realized too late. Mrs. Hudson somehow always made him feel like a child. He wouldn’t be able to learn anything if he was too worried about offending her. Was he asking too much? He didn’t want to set her kitchen on fire.

“I thought you could cook, Sherlock?”

“I can but nothing to this quality and I need to fit in. I can’t fake this. You’re the best cook I know who knows me and how I am. I hoped you could teach me,” Sherlock muttered, slightly embarrassed but he tried to be as truthful as he could with Mrs. Hudson.

To his utter surprise, Mrs. Hudson got teary eyed for a moment before brightly smiling. She nodded and took a deep breath.

“Alright then. Let’s get started.”

 

(!)(!)(!)

 

Four hours later, Sherlock stumbled into the sitting area and collapsed in his chair with his arm draped over his eyes. John looked up from the book he was reading and glanced over his lover before closing the book and setting it aside. A knee length white apron was tied around Sherlock’s slim waist and his shirt sleeves were rolled up to his elbows. The dark shirt had dustings or something white on it and the apron was splattered with multicolored spots. The tips of his fingers were stained and there were a few plasters scattered over his hands and fingers. John was amused by how wrung out Sherlock looked. The consulting detective only looked this rough after a week and a half long case; level 9 or higher. Apparently Mrs. Hudson had managed wearing Sherlock into the ground where countless criminals, political powerhouses and the best of the NSY had failed.

“Sherlock?” John asked quietly, eager to hear the outcome of the cooking lesson.

“That woman is a slave driver. The British Military missed out on an outstanding drill instructor in her,” he muttered as John stood to make Sherlock an obvious much needed cup of tea.

“So how did it go?” John asked and nudged the long leg as he held out the hot mug.

Sherlock’s arm slid from his eyes and he reached out to take the mug. He took a sip and groaned softly as the liquid slid down his throat. His free hand came up and he ran it through his wild hair, sending up a small puff of the white powder.

“Is that flour in your hair?”

Sherlock snagged a curl and tried to pull it down to look at it. “Probably. She had me ‘brown a roast’ and apparently needed to coat it in flour. Well apparently it’s not a good idea to drop something heavy into a dish of flour. We practiced chopping and styles of chopping and the speed. We went through every dish the restaurant serves and she even made me create a few new ones. ‘Just in case’ she said. In case of what?”

He released the curl and held the mug by the top as his arms draped over the arms of his chair. He was exhausted in a way he had never been. Who knew cooking could be so physical? Sherlock leaned his head back and closed his eyes. Luxuriating in the stillness for a moment, he flinched when he felt a hand on his forearm. He cracked open an eyelid and looked up at John who had a smile on. John reached out and took the mug from Sherlock’s grip and set it on a nearby table before sliding his knee between the outside of Sherlock’s thigh and the chair. A moment later, he was straddling Sherlock’s lap and Sherlock growled softly at the comfortable heat and weight. John leaned forward and braced his arms on the back of the chair behind Sherlock’s head as he rolled his hips against Sherlock.

“I have a confession to make.” John dipped his head to kiss and lick along Sherlock’s neck. “Seeing you in that apron with flour dusting your hair makes me all hot for you. Wondering what all you’ve been doing with those hands of yours.”

Sherlock hummed softly as he ran his hands up John’s thighs to feel the tight muscles. He was tired but now he figured he could make it worthwhile for John. His breath caught when John bit lightly at his pulse point. He hadn’t decided yet if John was looking for more nice and slow or hard and rough; Sherlock could have easily gone either way. Before he could get his hands into more interesting place a mobile ring interrupted the foreplay. Sherlock groaned as he blindly dug under John’s thigh for his pocket. John sighed and rocked to one side to slip his leg back to the floor and stood. Sherlock found his mobile and held it up to see the caller ID.

“Yes, Lestrade?”

Sherlock listened for a moment before ending the call and surging to his feet.

“John! There’s another body,” Sherlock called and quickly untied the apron and cast it into the kitchen.

He unbuttoned his shirt and cast it toward the laundry hamper when he entered his bedroom. A few moments later, he emerged while slipping on a clean shirt. John was holding his coat and scarf as he headed down the stairs with Sherlock behind him. Sherlock quickly tucked the shirt in before finishing the buttons. John held the scarf out over his shoulder as he went out the front door. The cab pulled up just as Sherlock was slipping on his coat and they climbed in.

Sherlock gave the driver the address and sat back against the seat. “The victim is male, late twenties, found in an alley off Drumald Street. Marks on the body does seem to resemble the ones on the other victims. We’ll have Molly look at the stomach contents first.”

“We might be able to confirm the theory without the stomach contents now that we know what to look for.”

Sherlock hesitated for a moment before looking over at John. “How did you come to know so much about the restaurant business?”

John looked over and saw the genuine curiosity. He shrugged before looking back out the window.

“I started off as a busboy and worked my way up during school and the summers. I went from busboy to waiter and then to working in the kitchen. That’s about the time I left for uni so I didn’t spend much time behind the line. Spent most of my time as a waiter though.”

“Interesting,” Sherlock commented and added that little tidbit of knowledge to his John Room in his Mind Palace.

The cab stopped and John stayed back to pay the cabbie as Sherlock hurried to where an area was cordoned off by police. He ignored Donovan, Anderson and even Lestrade as he looked over the victim. He knew what to look for now. Well, look for the hints. He really wouldn’t get the positive connection until they did the autopsy and looked at the stomach contents. But maybe there was a receipt or something else. John knelt on the other side of the body and also started to inspect the body. Sherlock started at the feet and worked his way up as John started at the head and started his way down. The forensics team stood by, waiting, they knew the routine. The two would look the body up and down and then talk quietly over what they learned. More often, no words were spoken and would only indicate towards something interesting. The other would either nod in acknowledgement or look closer at what was pointed out.

This time they met half way at the victim’s hands and both stopped. John lifted the hand on his side and brought it to his nose. His nostrils flared as he took in the scent and his eyelids fluttered. A moment later Sherlock was also smelling the hand on his side and his gaze snapped up to look at John. Lestrade watched in amusement and waited for the brilliant outcome.

“I think our theory is correct, John. He has residue of cilantro on his fingers. We’ll need to find out his work history and-”

John cut him off as his head cocked slightly to the side. “The theory is correct but no,this is not cilantro on his hands. This is parsley, flat leaf parsley to be exact. Cilantro is not in season. He worked at the Corrie's vegetable stand at the farmers market.”

Sherlock and Lestrade stared at John in shock at his firm tone. John seemed to realized what he just said and flushed slightly in embarrassment before clearing his throat and coughing softly. It was a rare thing when he had to correct Sherlock.

“Uh yeah, so off to Corrie’s then to confirm?” he said and stood to brush off his knees.

“John, how do you know that?”

“Well...the smell of the oils on his hands. Smells a bit like cilantro but it’s wrong; maybe cilantro at the start of its season but it’s not in season right now. Parsley is in season and that scent is more parsley than cilantro. His hands have definitely held flat leaf parsley within the last twenty-four hours. And Corrie’s has the best flat leaf parsley of the vendors. Anyone working in the restaurant business would know that.”

John refused to meet the gaze of the two men as he fidgited. John saw Sherlock’s eyes flare with lust as he stood and stepped over the body to advance on John. John knew exactly what that look in Sherlock’s eyes meant and it was neither the time or the place for Sherlock to get horny despite the sudden curl of anticipation pooling in John’s groin. John stepped back quickly and held out his hands to Sherlock. John remembered clearly when he surprised Sherlock the day before and his comment about marking John as his. Despite the colorful bruise just under his ear, John had a feeling that Sherlock was thinking about a more obvious mark.

“Sherlock, now is not the time for that. I know what you’re thinking and no,” he said quickly and pressed his hands to Sherlock’s chest to stop the consulting detective.

Sherlock’s heart was pounding against his rib cage and John’s hands while he saw Sherlock’s hands clench and flex in his desire to grab at John. John could barely see the blue-green iris of Sherlock’s eyes, the pupil drowning everything else out. Sherlock slowly licked his lips and John felt his heart rate speed up as his eyes followed the path of that pink organ. John saw Lestrade approach slowly from behind Sherlock and knew he had to get control of this. John grabbed Sherlock’s wrists and kept them pinned to his side as John stepped against Sherlock’s body. Rocking up on his toes so he could reach Sherlock’s ears, John gently kissed his neck and added a bit of teeth.

“Let’s check out Corrie’s and I promise, when we get home, I’ll let you mark me as much as you want. And then once you’ve come, I’ll tie you spread eagle on the bed and I’ll mark you. I’ll mark you everywhere. I’ll make you scream my name. I’ll make you beg. I’ll make you blackout from pleasure. I...will...ruin...you,” John whispered and tightened his grip on Sherlock’s wrists.

A full body shudder ran through Sherlock’s body and John heard the throaty groan his words had produced. John knew how well Sherlock’s imagination worked and he just provided ample raw material for his mind to stay occupied.

“But only if you behave and play nice.”

John released his grip and stepped to the side to look at Lestrade.

“We’re going to look into Corrie’s and let you know,” John said and moved to take a picture of the victim’s face to show the employees at Corrie’s.

Sherlock was still standing where John had left him and John was right. Sherlock’s imagination was running rampant with scenarios that only surpassed the previous ones. He flinched when John snagged his elbow and towed him towards the street to grab a cab. Sherlock mentally bullied his lusting thoughts into the John wing of his mind palace and took a deep breath. There was still a case going on; an important case with four victims now. Can’t let thoughts of what type of positions he could fuck John in to disturb the case. John told the driver where they were going and Sherlock turned his attention back to his lover. When John had interrupted him to correct him that it was parsley and not cilantro and Sherlock realized that John was right, the surge of lust and desire had startled him. The only thought running through his mind was ‘Mine!’.

The cab dropped them off at the entrance to the market and John rolled his shoulders as he glanced around. Sherlock also looked around but turned his attention back to John.

“You dabbled more in the kitchen then you let on earlier,” he commented and ignored the crowds flowing past them.

John shrugged before answering. “I learned a lot by watching, listening and asking questions. While I was in Afghanistan, I became my unit’s unofficial cook. The spices we had available to cook from.”

John took a deep breath in memory and savored the scent memory of cooking with those spices.

“I picked up a lot from different people and places. I dabbled and experimented with cooking styles and spices. I learned to listen to my instincts when it came to food. I could do some amazing things with powdered eggs.”

Sherlock grimaced at the concept of powdered eggs but nodded as he filed the information away. John motioned towards the market and led the way between the booths. Sherlock had come to the market on off days when he didn’t have a case and needed something to occupy his mind. Observing the patrons of the market seemed a good idea but he never watched where he went; he just found a corner and watched the people or just wandered. John knew exactly where he was going and occasionally yelled out a greeting as the different vendors recognized him and shouted a hello. Sherlock was amazed that John had this whole side of him that Sherlock never knew about. He would have to investigate this more.

They approached a large, bustling stall filled with fruit, vegetables and other plants. John wove between the people effortlessly until reaching the makeshift counter where a middle aged woman stood negotiating with a patron. John waited until the transaction was completed before stepping forward to catch the woman’s eye. She reached out and snagged the sleeve of a helper to drag her over to work the small till. She then motioned for John to come around the table. John caught Sherlock’s gaze and moved to follow the woman. Sherlock raised an eyebrow but followed his blogger.

“How are you doing, Doctor John? Haven’t seen you around in a while. I just got in a great shipment of asparagus from the farm. I’ll bear your children for you if you make that make that asparagus gruyere tart for me.”

John blushed brightly before clearing his throat and pulling out his mobile.

“Judith, do you recognize him?”

John showed her the photo of the fourth victim and watched her face closely. There was immediate recognition but started to fade once she really took notice of the photo. She nodded slowly before looking back to John.

“I do. He is our new delivery driver. Started just two weeks ago. Name is Bruce Lyons. He’s an okay kid,” she replied and handed the mobile back to John.

“What happened to him?”

“He was murdered. We think it might have been someone on his delivery route. Do you have a list of his stops?” Sherlock asked as John slipped his mobile back into his pocket.

Judith nodded and went back to the till to grab a clipboard with several grungy papers clipped on it. She slowly flipped through the pages as she walked back to the two men.

“Ah, here’s Bruce’s route. He had a total of thirty restaurants he delivered fruits and vegetables to over the week. Here’s his list,” she said and held out the clipboard to John.

Sherlock snatched it from her hands and immediately scanned the list of restaurants and John rolled his eyes. Judith glanced between Sherlock and John and raise her eyebrows. John grimaced and shrugged his shoulders in apology.

“Is this him? The flatmate lover? The one that doesn’t eat the divine dishes you cook? Does he knew how good of a chef you are?”Judith demanded in mock outrage.

Sherlock slowly looked up to the blushing John and older woman. His gaze roved over Judith and saw plan honesty. She believed everything she was saying and wasn’t exaggerating. Sherlock wondered if he might have been missing out on something when he didn’t eat a lot of what John cooked. Mrs. Hudson had questioned why John hadn’t shown Sherlock how to cook. She had said that he knew how to cook everything Sherlock had asked about. Sherlock hadn’t paid it much thought at the time but apparently he was missing something. He vowed to investigate this new ability of John’s.

“John, Preseco is on Bruce’s route. We need to get in there tonight if your army friend can do it,” Sherlock said and held the list out to John while pointing to the listing.

John nodded and handed the clipboard back to Judith. A few minutes later, John and Sherlock were in another cab and John was on the mobile with Brad. Sherlock was texting with Lestrade and getting the background information on the most recent victim. They had already confirmed it was the same killer and they found the connection but Sherlock was nothing if not thorough. When they arrived back at the flat, Sherlock went straight to Mrs. Hudson’s flat to take another lesson from her before they were due at the restaurant that evening.

While Sherlock was with Mrs. Hudson, John changed clothes and glanced over the details that Brad had sent over about the dishes. John would need to be able to talk intelligently about the dishes and answer any questions about allergies and ingredients. John headed to the restaurant early to catch up with Brad and meet the rest of the serving staff. Sherlock and John had decided to act like they didn’t know each other while at the restaurant. It would allow them to act as loners with no formed attachments. They would also be using alias since Sherlock had started to become more famous and recognizable. The name of Sherlock was as unique as the man himself.

John gripped his long black apron and knocked on the door to Preseco while looking up and down the street. The restaurants were getting ready to open for dinner service. John glanced back as Brad opened the door and waved him in.

“Good to see you, Jonathan,” Brad said with a slight smirk.

“You also Mr. Miggle,” John replied and stepped into the restaurant.

A few other waiters were moving around the empty dining room setting up tables and prepping the pitchers. Brad showed him where he could store his things and then introduced him to Anna, the waitress that would show him around. John quickly won Anna over and soon started to slyly ask about the front house staff.

She shrugged as she walked around a table, placing water glasses. “Like any business, everyone has their off days. But usually we all help each other out. Not that way in the back of house though.”

“What do you mean?” John asked and handed her more glasses.

“Well, you’ve worked in a restaurant, right?”

John nodded. “A few of them.”

“It’s the same in our kitchen as in other kitchens. It takes a unique individual to work behind the line. I’ve seen more egos behind the line that I thought could exist in such a small space. Brad told us a new chef is starting tonight, so it’s going to be interesting to see how he meshes with the others. He’ll probably have an ego just as big as the others,” she commented and John rolled his eyes as he placed flatware down.

“You have no idea,” he muttered.

“The chefs really only talk to each other about food and orders. They don’t help each other out beyond what is required and all of them are rude to the waiters. Like we’re not worth their time or attention.”

“But you’re the face of the restaurant. Despite how good the food is, if the service is poor then the whole experience is poor,” John argued and Anna nodded eagerly.

“Exactly. But they don’t care about that. They think the food overrides everything else and they apologize to no one.”

John nodded and continued to look around at the other waiters and busboys. He could feel a growing tension permeate the air as they neared opening. When Brad called together the staff to meet in the kitchen, John took a deep breath and schooled his face. He could barely suppress his surprise when he saw Sherlock though; Sherlock was a ginger. The consulting detective must have dyed his hair after John left. The beautiful red set off his green-grey eyes which didn’t even pause as they scanned over the line of wait staff including John. Apparently, a change of names was not enough for Sherlock to go undercover, John mused and looked at Brad as he approached John.

“This is our new waiter, Jonathan. He’s worked both in front of house and back of house and behind the line. I finally managed to steal him away from one of our competitors,” Brad said and slapped John on his shoulder.

John nodded in greeting to everyone and watched as Brad approached Sherlock. “And this is our new line cook, William. He studied at the CIA in America and came back to his home turf to cook with us. Please make them both feel welcome. First reservation in house in fifteen minutes.”

For the next four hours, John was reminded why he had never pursued a career in restaurants and hospitality. He had forgotten how infuriating the patrons could be and how infuriating the kitchen staff could be. Sherlock seemed to have found his kin when it comes to acidic retorts. John did see a few times when Sherlock wanted to come to John’s defense but restrained himself. When John had commented to the chef that the steak wasn’t cooked to the patron’s specifications, John was reminded of his drill instructors during the army. The screaming could rival that. So, John took the steak out to the patron and then was fussed at by the patron that the steak wasn’t cooked right. That prompted John to go back into the kitchen and with a glance at Brad with mute apology, started to lecture the line cook about how to cook a proper steak and demanded that he do it while John watched to make sure he got it right. That started a minor mutiny in the kitchen which eventually resulted in the line cook storming out of the kitchen. John didn’t see the piercing gaze from Sherlock when John stepped behind the line and tossed a steak onto the hot grill top. John occasionally went back out to his tables but stayed behind the line in the kitchen. Quickly, John and Sherlock started to anticipate each others movements and needs. Plates started to come out of the kitchen faster and compliments started to flow in from the patrons via the waiters.  When the dinner rush started to slow, both John and Sherlock offered to stay late to clean up since they were the so called newbies. John was in the dining room, clearing off one of the tables while keeping an eye on the lingering three tables.

Brad came over to help John clear a table.

“Any luck?” Brad asked quietly as scraped food remains onto a plate.

“Not up here. S-William may have discovered something in the back of house but I don’t think so. He would have found me,” John replied and his gaze fell to a busboy carrying a dish bin towards the kitchen.

“Brad? Who’s that guy? He wasn’t at the prep meeting earlier,” John said quietly and pointed towards the young man.

“Oh, that’s Paul. He usually comes in halfway through the shift to help bus the last few tables and clean up the kitchen. He’s quiet. Think he’s had some trouble at home. Works hard though.”

John’s mind started racing. As a busboy he would work in the front of house and the back of house. He would interact with vendors, patrons, other chefs. As a busboy would be at the bottom of the totem pole. Troubled life at home meant he would be volatile at work.

“Brad, do you have the work schedule of the past three weeks? Can you check when Paul would have worked?”

 

(!)(!)(!)

 

Sherlock grumbled under his breath as he wrapped the pans with unused food. He was the last line cook in the kitchen and he was putting away the unused food. He wouldn’t admit it to anyone...well, maybe John; but he never imagined that working in a restaurant was so...overwhelming and tiring. Without seeing the patrons he couldn’t predict what they would choose or argue with them that it was the wrong choice. He had to do a job that didn’t allow him to look at the subjects. It was...interesting. Gathering the multiple pans in his arms, he backed up and turned to bump into another body. It was a young man, holding a bin full of dirty dishes. The pans in Sherlock’s arms hit the floor and the liquids from the dirty glasses sloshed over Sherlock’s chest.

“You moron! Even an experimental monkey undergoing chemical castration knows to never stand that close to someone working in a kitchen,” Sherlock snapped and knelt to collect the pans.

Sherlock was so busy muttering other insults and deciding which pans of food were ruined, it took his brain a few moments to filter through what he subconsciously saw. By the time he made the connections, he had his back to the busboy and he slowly raised his head. Spinning quickly, a cutting board caught him right at the temple and knocked him flat onto his back in a daze. Scrambling backwards, Sherlock reached out and grabbed the nearest weapon he could utilize. A cast iron skillet. He blocked the next blow but sadly Sherlock didn’t realize just how heavy the skillet was and the blow knocked it back against his forehead and dazed him again. He could feel the weight of the skillet on his chest and blearily looked up at the busboy. Fury etched his features as he tossed aside the cutting board and grabbed a large chef’s knife. Before, he could advance on Sherlock, the swinging doors out to the dining room exploded open to reveal John.

“Sherlock!”

John advanced on the busboy before jumping back as the chef’s knife swung towards him. John grabbed a colander and held it up to deflect the knife as he tried talking the young man down.

“Paul, you don’t want to be doing this.”

That was the only thing John got out before Paul attacked him. It was over in only a few moments; a young man with no experience with a weapon against a well trained, experienced soldier. John swung the colander back handed against Paul’s left cheek which spun him around to face Sherlock. Sherlock was now on his feet and swung the cast iron skillet to spin Paul again. The young man collapsed in a boneless heap; completely unconscious from the multiple blows. John and Sherlock stood panting; John gripping the colander he had placed on his head while breathing deeply. Sherlock gripping the cast iron skillet with both hands like a baseball bat. He lowered the heavy skillet and looked at it before looking at John.

“These should be reclassified as a deadly weapon instead of cooking equipment,” Sherlock muttered and tossed the skillet onto the counter.

John laughed quietly and walked to the door and pushed it open. “It’s okay, Brad. You can come in. We’re about to call Scotland Yard to come pick up Paul.”

John let the door swung shut as he walked back behind the line and waited while Sherlock finished his call to Lestrade.

“How are you?” he asked when Sherlock terminated the call.

“Imagining how many ways a person could be murdered by cooking utensils alone,” Sherlock replied as John approached and gently titled Sherlock’s head to the side to look at where the cutting board caught him at his temple.

John also glanced at the slight bump on Sherlock’s forehead and deemed him fine; exclaiming his head was harder than it looked. Sherlock gave him a dirty look and slowly untied the apron before crumpling it up in a ball and tossing it aside.

“From now on, you’re doing the cooking. I refuse to put my body through this,” Sherlock commented and slowly walked past John while hearing Lestrade out in the dining room.

Lestrade came through the doors with Brad tailing behind him. The detective inspector looked down at the crumpled body and raised an eyebrow. “What did you do to him?”

Sherlock continued walking while speaking over his shoulder. “Cast iron skillet. You should issue them to the force. Deadly weapon.”

John giggled and said his goodbyes to Brad. Walking after Sherlock, he found the detective hesitating by the hostess stand, staring out the glass door at the panda car.

“Sherlock, you alright?” John asked and laid a hand against Sherlock’s lower back.

Sherlock turned to look down at John with a wicked grin. “I believe you promised to ruin me.”

John flushed as the memory came rushing back with stunning clarity. He looked at Sherlock’s face and saw a similar flush already working its way up the long, pale throat. John slyly smiled and stepped closer to Sherlock’s side. He dug his nails into Sherlock’s back and heard the man’s breath catch in his throat.

“Well, let’s go home then. Or I could strip you down and take you right here on one of these tables, where everyone could see you take it in the arse. Where everyone would hear you scream in pleasure from the pounding.” John paused and rocked up on his toes to lick at the sensitive spot under Sherlock’s ear. “But I don’t share and you’re mine.”

Sherlock’s eyes flared in lust and grabbed John’s hand to drag him through the doors to hunt down a cab.

 

(!)(!)(!)

 

One hour and a half, Sherlock was tied spread eagle on their bed, whimpering in acute lust as John licked and nibbled up his calf.

Once getting into the flat, they had frantically rutted against each other until reaching mutual orgasm. That had taken the sharp edge off their desire. The bleeding bite wound on John’s shoulder had filled Sherlock with sharp pride but he knew he was going to regret leaving the wound. Regret it only a little really if it meant a good rogering from the former army doctor. John had immediately bundled Sherlock off to their bedroom and blindfolded him after tying him to the bed. He had then slowly started nudging Sherlock back up the incline to arousal. The time had allowed both men to recover for round two and John pushed Sherlock to actually be primed and more than ready. Sherlock was ready again in thirty minutes and the next hour served to pulled him apart until he was a babbling mess of aroused, horny, painfully hard consulting detective. John was kneeling between Sherlock’s spread legs dancing his fingers across the highly sensitive skin and occasionally nipping and kissing along his skin. Sherlock’s hands were clenching and tugging against his restraints as his body tried to arch into John’s hands or lips to prolong the contact. Sherlock’s throat was hoarse from his pleas and moans as John continued his assault. His body was decorated with marks from John’s mouth and all were at varying levels of bruising. His cock was leaking precum but John was avoiding his entire groin area other than occasionally blowing on the sensitive flesh.

“John...please...take me...fuck me...suck me...something,” Sherlock groaned as he pressed his head back against the pillow.

John shifted and bit down on Sherlock’s right pectoral muscle and laved his tongue over the flesh before sucking hard. Sherlock whimpered and twitched before he arched his body against John’s talented mouth. Colors were swirling in Sherlock’s vision behind the blindfold. He had lost all track of time and all his attention was narrowed down on John’s mouth and hands and where they might touch next. John nibbled across Sherlock’s chest and sucked an erect nipple into his mouth. Sherlock groaned and twitched as his arousal rose a level. John was a professional at arousing an individual and keeping them idling until he decided to up the ante. He couldn’t see where John would attack next.

“Oh god!” Sherlock yelped when John swallowed down his cock with no hesitation.

Fireworks exploded along Sherlock’s skin as John’s tongue swirled around the sensitive head of his cock. All of the sensations narrowed down to his cock and John’s wonderful tongue. He was so focused on those sensations that he didn’t even notice John’s fingers gently stretching him. He also didn’t feel John release his ankles with his free hand. John’s mouth left his cock and before he could take a breath, John was thrusting into him in one smooth motion and his legs were free to wrap around John’s upper waist and chest. Sherlock arched his chest and felt his orgasm start to churn at the base of his spine. There was something he wanted; something he needed. He whimpered and tightened his legs.

“Sherlock?” John asked tightly and ceased his long strokes.

Sherlock tried twice before he could get words out. Sherlock tossed his head side to side in frustration. Part of him still rebelled against showing need; admitting to wanting something. But this was John; he could do anything for John. “I...I want...see you. Want to...see you. Please.”

A moment later, the blindfold was removed and Sherlock blinked to adjust his eyes to the dim lighting coming from the hallway light. His gaze immediately locked onto John’s face hovering above him. John’s loving gaze immediately calmed the raging need in Sherlock’s body that had nothing to do his arousal. Balancing his weight on one hand, John reached up and gently cupped Sherlock’s cheek to brush his thumb over the prominent cheekbone. Sherlock turned his face and gently kissed John’s palm while breathing in John’s scent.

“Love you,” he murmured against the rough skin.

“So much,” John replied softly as Sherlock’s gaze turned back to look up at John.

He flexed his bound arms and cheekily grinned at John. “Fuck me, John. Make me bloody well scream.”

John’s hand slid down to Sherlock’s throat and wrapped around it as he started to slowly thrust again. He kept the pace slow as he tightened his grip on Sherlock’s windpipe. They stared at each other; John watching Sherlock to gauge how long to hold the grip, Sherlock watching John so he could see the fierce passion and possession the army doctor felt for him. John started to speed up his thrusts as involuntary panic slipped into Sherlock’s eyes. John released his grip just as he slammed hard into Sherlock’s loose and willing body, hitting his prostate with shocking accuracy. Sherlock’s hoarse shout accompanied his thrashing body as he curled his lower body and tightened his legs around John’s body. Sherlock’s eyelids fluttered wildly as the sudden influx of oxygen flooded his euphoric brain and sharpened every sensation.

“Again.”

He forced his eyelids open to stare at John as his hand wrapped around Sherlock’s pale throat again. John knew this would be the last time; Sherlock arse muscles were fluttering wildly around John’s cock and his swollen head was leaking copious amounts of precum. John slowed his thrusts but still brushed against Sherlock’s prostate with each stroke. When the panic slid into Sherlock’s gaze, John kept his grip for a moment longer than before before releasing and shoving into Sherlock. Sherlock’s scream rang in John’s ears as he clamped down on John’s cock and rode his orgasm as his cock pulsed semen over his chest and abdomen.

Blood roared in John’s ears as he thrust three more times before stilling, buried in Sherlock’s warm body. His orgasm raced from his groin and spread out to every cell and nerve ending as he shouted Sherlock’s name. His senses were filled with Sherlock as he braced his upper body over Sherlock’s prone figure. He lowered his head until his forehead pressed against Sherlock’s chest and he felt the moist heat radiating off his consulting detective. He could feel Sherlock’s pounding heartbeat and labored breathing from where his head was pressed. Lifting his head, John slid himself from Sherlock and reached up to untie Sherlock’s hands. Sherlock lazily watched him and moaned softly as his arms were lowered and he was wrapped in John once being cleaned up. John pulled a duvet up over the two of them and gently kissed Sherlock’s temple.

“You alright?” he asked softly and kissed the red marks on Sherlock’s wrists.

“Mmmm, better than alright,” Sherlock replied and nuzzled against John’s chest.

John chuckled and trailed his fingertips up and down Sherlock’s spine. He could hear rain start up outside, beating against the roof and window. His mind started to drift and casually reflected off different topics before landing on Mrs. Hudson. He clearly remembered the old woman’s sad face when she learned her sister wasn’t coming up for her birthday. It was so rare for Mrs. Hudson to do something for herself. He started to think of what he could do for Mrs. Hudson for her birthday; something great for a great woman.

“What are you thinking so hard about?” Sherlock mumbled and felt John’s breathing slow as sleep neared.

“Mmm, Mrs. Hudson. Her sister cancelled on her for her birthday. Trying to think of something nice to do,” John quietly said as he rubbed his cheek against Sherlock’s ginger hair.

Sherlock was quiet and felt John fall asleep. The detective mulled over the thought for a while before following John into dream land.

 

(!)(!)(!)

 

Mrs. Martha Hudson let herself into the building and slowly walked to her flat door. It was quiet upstairs so her boys must be out solving crimes. She sighed and slowly opened the door to turn on the lights. Her sitting room was silent and empty. Carrying the grocery bag to her kitchen, she unpacked the few things she had picked up and started to put them away. A knock at her door, startled her and she turned quickly to find John standing in the doorway. Martha quickly slid on a smile and hid her true emotions. She was a professional at it after everything with her ex-husband. Never let them see how much she truly hurt.

“John, what can I do for you dear?” she asked and turned to continue putting away her food items.

“I need your help upstairs. Sherlock spilled something on the carpet and I need help trying to get it out,” John replied with a grimace and Martha nodded.

When John turned to lead the way out of the flat, Martha let the mask slip briefly before gathering herself. He helped her up the stairs, constantly talking about how clumsy Sherlock could be with his chemicals. John paused on the top step to check his phone and motioned for Mrs. Hudson to go on through the cracked door. Martha pushed open the door and stopped in her tracks. Strung across the sitting room was a banner with ‘Happy Birthday Mrs. Hudson’. Below it stood young Molly Hooper, DI Lestrade, Mrs Turner from next door and Mycroft; all holding small wrapped presents. John stepped around her to join the line, also holding his own present for Mrs. Hudson. To the far left, near the doorway to the kitchen was Sherlock holding a small bouquet of flowers. He motioned towards the kitchen and Mrs. Hudson stepped forward to look and gasped softly while a hand came up to cover her mouth. They had pulled all the tables together and the tops were covered with a wide variety of cooked dishes. Martha recognized several dishes that she had taught Sherlock how to cook the week before for his case. Tears glistened in her eyes as Sherlock approached and held out the bouquet before leaning over to speak quietly in her ear.

“Just a reminder that you are loved and appreciated. You’ve always been like a mother figure to me. I hope some day to have the honor of being consider like a son to you. Happy Birthday, Mrs. Hudson.”

Sherlock gently kissed her cheek before straightening. Martha felt a few tears trail down her cheeks and she struggled to find something to say that would impart how touched she was. How sweet it was for Sherlock and John and everyone to do this.

She reached up and gently touched Sherlock’s cheek. “I have always been proud of you and have always considered you as a son. Thank you, Sherlock.”

Sherlock smiled a real smile and John cleared his throat after a moment. “Let’s eat.”

 


	5. History

Soldiers, when committed to a task, can’t compromise. It’s unrelenting devotion to the standards of duty and courage, absolute loyalty to others, not letting the task go until it’s been done. - John Keegan

 

(!)(!)(!)

 

John Watson lifted the glass lid from the pan and held it aside while avoiding the sudden cloud of steam from the pan. Using a spoon, he sampled the liquid and slowly nodded before setting aside the lid and picking up a few spice bottles. Tossing in a few spices, he stirred the liquid and sampled it again. Smiling brightly, he spooned the liquid over the meat simmering in the liquid before replacing the lid. Wiping his hands clean, he tilted his head upon hearing the door downstairs slam shut. Recognizing the pattern and accompanying sounds, he smiled and turned back to the pan. He could hear the mutterings floating up the stairs from the irate consulting detective and the incompetence of the NSY. Sherlock had just finished up a week long case and was due his post-case crash. That was the reason why John had stayed behind from the paperwork so he could get a good meal fixed for his lover. Shaking his head at the continued muttering, John plated two servings of pasta and ladled the sauce and meat onto the pasta and shut off all the heat elements.

“John?”

“In the kitchen. Dinner is ready and don’t say you’re not hungry,” John called and heard Sherlock hesitate in the sitting room.

“How about I already ate?”

John burst out laughing as he picked up both plates and turned to place them on the table. “That is possibly the most blatant lie I’ve ever heard you say and that’s saying something.”

Sherlock chuckled and appeared around the corner, sans coat and scarf. He had gone to Scotland Yard to help finish filling out paperwork and apparently it hadn’t gone well. John listened as Sherlock listed off Anderson’s incorrect conclusions while they ate. Once John finished, he stood with his plate and turned back to the sink. Sherlock was still eating when a mobile chimed nearby. Both men patted their pockets until John claimed the call. Connecting the call, John held the mobile between his head and shoulder while he rinsed his dish.

“Yes, hello?”

John listened for a moment before his movements slowed and eventually stopped. Sherlock quickly became aware of the tension that took residence in John’s posture. The detective blinked and sat back in his chair to look at the bigger picture of his flat mate and lover. The air around John seemed to crackle with electricity and danger as his spine straightened even more. Sherlock was amazed by this subtle but obvious shift in the former army doctor. He was also curious as to what caused it. John hadn’t spoken since he answered the call. Trying to read the signs, Sherlock missed the termination of the call.

“Sherlock, I have to go out. I’ll be back in a few hours,” John said and walked out of the kitchen to where the coats were hung.

Sherlock followed quickly and moved to grab his coat but stopped when John shot him a stern look. “Alone, Sherlock. I need to go alone.”

John turned and hurried down the stairs, leaving Sherlock dazed in surprise. It was usually him that rushed out of the flat being mysterious. And something was different about John. He had a different air about him. Sherlock heard the door downstairs slam and he walked to the windows to watch John stride down the street. Watching until John was out of sight, Sherlock slowly walked back to the couch and stretched out on it. He knew he could pull up John’s mobile GPS to find out where the older man was going but that would cross the bounds of ‘not good’. He again thought over the phone call he watched John take. Spine straightening to military precision. His hand was steady but it had been for a while now. John more closed off than Sherlock’s seen him in a while. Unease curled up Sherlock’s spine but he repressed it. John would tell him. John always tells him what’s bothering the older man once he’s had time to mull it over.

 

(!)(!)(!)

 

Captain John Watson exploded through the doors of the government building and stormed across the polished entry hall. The security guard immediately reached for his weapon but stopped when he recognized the blond man. He nodded briefly and went back to his position. John didn’t spare him a glance as he went to the lift and took it up to the seventh floor. The halls were empty as he went a nondescript office door and pushed open the door.

“What the hell did you mean that the Redstart Mission is still on?” John snarled at the three other men in the office.

One was dressed in military fatigues and the other two were dressed in suit and jackets. The suit jackets were hanging on the back of the chairs and the ties were loosened.

The one in the military fatigues was only known as D among this group. None went by their real names and most didn’t even know each other’s real names. At most, they knew their real first names. Nothing beyond that. Less risk of dangerous information getting out to the wrong hands. His hair was black with streaks of premature grey. Deep lines were etched in his face from stress and exhaustion but the laugh lines around his eyes were also deep.

One of the men in a suit was a handsome african american with a bald head. His brown eyes were sharp and clear as he leaned back in one of the chairs. He was called Reese and towered over John’s smaller stature. Despite teasing the doctor about his height or lack thereof, Reese broke a chair over someone’s head after they made a joke about John’s height. Reese was the only one that could tease John about his height.

The third man had bright ginger haired which was slicked back and was starting curl at the nape of his neck. He was called Rabbit. His broad chest stretched the designer tee shirt that he wore. All men could easily fit into a London crowd.

Among this crowd John was known as Jekyll from Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde. He had gotten the nickname from being a healer and a soldier. One of the best healers and one of the best soldiers. His fellow soldiers respected and were slightly scared of the medical side. Everyone was petrified of his Hyde side when it came out. John wasn’t proud of that side and what it was capable of. Sherlock had seen glimpses of it in the past. John shooting the cabbie. John rescuing him from the Flannery brothers. Other small hints that Sherlock naturally attributed to being a soldier. But John was so much more than just a normal soldier.

The air in the conference room smelled like stale coffee with a layer of fresh coffee over it; they had been here a while. The three men glanced up from the conference table covered with maps, pictures and witness statements to watch the enraged doctor.

“We’ve been tracking a string of deaths around the globe. All victims were ex-military, cause of death always shot point blank range at base of skull,” Rabbit said and pushed himself up from where he leaned over the table top.

“Execution. Professional,” John commented and slowly approached the table.

The three men glanced at each other before Reese spoke quietly. “All of them also had a gunshot wound, post-mortem, to the left shoulder.”

John’s left shoulder instinctively twitched as he reached out and started sifting through the papers. Multiple pictures showed the victims and numbers written in the upper corners references a nearby file with detailed observations and reports. John’s gaze immediately started picking out subtle clues from the photographs. Powder burns on most of the victims. Bruising around the wound indicative of anger from the assailant; couldn’t control how hard the person pressed the gun against the flesh.

“Who do you think it was? Who knows about Redstart?” John asked and shrugged out of his jacket to drape it over a nearby chair.

“We’ve already reached out to the government to see if anyone has accessed the file. No one has. Very few have clearance for it. The only ones left are the ones that were directly involved.”

“Who still has to be accounted for?”

“We’ve cleared the people that we’re certain are dead or away on other missions. The only person we can’t properly account for is...Lt. Robert Crompton, Bricks.”

“Bricks? But he’s dead,” John said, confused, as he glanced at the other men.

“We never found a body, Jekyll. He could have survived those injuries.”

John slowly lowered himself into the chair and accepted the files as D unearthed a world map from under the files. “The earliest death that we can find that fits all the parameters occurred in Afghanistan, two years after we left there.”

“Enough time for him to heal adequately and gain back full range of motion,” John commented and rubbed his face.

“Right. The next death was in India, then Yemen, Bolivia, Columbia. We just got a report from Nigeria. He’s hunting all the places we had jobs in. He’s taking his time, though. One death every month or so. And he’s looking for you, Jekyll,” D said as he straightened and crossed his arms across his chest.

“Why didn’t he come straight back to England? He knew we were all from the English military. He could have found us all here at some point.”

John shook his head. “If he’s really after me then I never really said I wanted to come back. I had no one to come back to. No family other than a sibling that I don’t get along with. Bricks probably figured I would have made a home in a country I enjoyed instead of returning. We have to cut him off before he tries London. We’ll set up in Siena; that’ll give us enough time to make contacts.”

“Why don’t we lure him to London? Finish him on our own field,” Rabbit said as he walked to the coffee pot.

“No.”

All three men froze at the growled word from John. His eyes snapped up from the file in front of him and looked at each of the men.

“We take the fight to him outside of London. I will not let him come here.”

If there was anything the men had learned during their time together it was to never contradict Jekyll when he growled a statement. John felt the immediate fear then fury at the thought of Bricks being in the same city as Sherlock. John knew how Bricks operated; hell, John had taught him. First step would be to ingratiate yourself into the surroundings. Second step was to know everything about your surroundings and how to use them to your advantage. Third step was find your enemies weak points; their pressure points. For most it was loved ones; siblings, offspring, intimate family. John knew what his pressure point was: Sherlock. John hoped Bricks hadn’t found out about his life in London. John never had something to lose before; now he did and he was going to guard it like his life depending on it. And it did.

D sighed and ran a hand through his hair before speaking. “Alright, lets plan on meeting him in Siena.”

 

(!)(!)(!)

 

John came home late and let himself into the flat silently. He shook the rain water from his shoulders and wiped a hand over his face. All the lights were off and the only lighting came from the street lamps outside the windows. John scanned the sitting room and tilted his head slightly to listen to the rest of the flat. Could Sherlock really have gone to bed? Shrugging out of his jacket and hanging it up, John toed off his shoes and walked down the hallway towards their bedroom. The door was cracked and opened silently as John pushed at it. He stood in the doorway, looking at the shadowed figure curled up in the bed. While awake Sherlock used his lankiness as a weapon but when he slept, he curled up in a tight ball. He was curled up under the sheet that only covered his lower body and had his arms folded tightly against his chest with his head bowed. His body was cast in pale light from the street lamp outside and the rainwater slicking down the window pane was casting shadows of rain water slicking down Sherlock’s body. The shadows danced down the pale arms and bowed head; twisting and turning on the long journey. John smiled and stepped closer to squat next to the bed and look closer. The smile slipped from his lips when he recognized what Sherlock was clutching. It was John’s sleeping shirt; his face was buried in the fabric. Remembering how he had left earlier that night, regret niggled at John’s mind. Pressing his lips tightly together, John reached out and gently ghosted a hand over the riotous curls. He quickly straightened and walked around to the other side of the bed and stripped down to his pants. Lifting up the edge of the sheet, John slid his body under the fabric and pressed up against Sherlock’s warm body. John slid an arm around the slim waist and pressed his palm flat against the lower rib cage. He gently kissed the bare shoulder and nuzzled between the sharp shoulder blades.

“Where did you go?”

John froze before relaxing and sighing at the softly spoken words. He should have know Sherlock wouldn’t stay asleep. He honestly wasn’t even sure if he ever was asleep. Probably not. He would have been worried about John and what the phone call was about. It rarely came up but at times Sherlock could be very insecure; especially in regards to their relationship. John nuzzled Sherlock’s upper back again and hummed softly before replying.

“An old military buddy of mine was in trouble. He was calling in some help,” John replied quietly and mentally cringed at the outright lie.

Well, it was only a partial lie but still a lie.

“Did you help him?”

John lifted his gaze to the back of Sherlock’s head and saw the slight profile of Sherlock’s delicate face. He saw at that moment that Sherlock knew he was lying but wouldn’t point it out. If John told Sherlock the sky was purple, then Sherlock would know the sky to be purple. Sherlock would make any accommodations to ensure that John would stay with him. He would accept any lie from John; because he loved John. He trusted John.

“Not yet but we’re working on it,” John replied and nuzzled Sherlock’s neck again as his hand slid down Sherlock’s abdomen to gently palm his slowly growing cock through Sherlock’s pants.

“How about I replace that shirt with the real thing?”

Sherlock groaned and rolled onto his back to pull John on top of him. He rolled his hips up against John and threw his head back at the sensation.

“Please, John...take me...fuck me,” Sherlock moaned and shuddered at the feel of John’s hand curling around his throat to grab at his hair.

John’s pulse jumped and he growled into Sherlock’s neck. So this was how Sherlock wanted it tonight and John was very willing to satisfy that desire. His grip on Sherlock’s hair tightened and he pulled the consulting detective’s head back to bite at the bared throat. Sherlock’s groan vibrated across his lips and he ran his other hand down Sherlock’s side to grip at his hip.

“Roll over so I can fuck you,” John growled and heard Sherlock’s breath catch at the roughness of his words.

John didn’t need to see Sherlock’s face to see the physical reaction to his words. Sherlock’s pupils would have dilated considerably, a flush would have raced up his neck and he would have bit his bottom lip. John released his grip on Sherlock’s hair and the younger man quickly pushed off his pants and rolled over to rise up on his hands and knees. John leaned over Sherlock’s body and moved Sherlock’s hands to grip the headboard and tightened his grip before releasing the detective’s hands.

“Don’t let go,” John murmured and felt Sherlock shift to widen his knees.

“Yes, sir.”

John growled in approval and started to slowly kiss down Sherlock’s pale back. Sherlock’s tight grip to the headboard didn’t stop him from rocking back against John’s lips, tongue and hands. At every little bite and nibble, Sherlock alternated between gasping and moaning. John’s left hand wrapped around Sherlock’s torso and alternated between Sherlock’s nipples. He would twist and pinch before lightly flicking the sensitive nub. Uncontrolled cries were erupting from Sherlock’s mouth as he mindlessly pleaded with John. John was purposely avoiding any contact with Sherlock’s cock but was assaulting every other erogenous zone. Sherlock’s head was hanging between his outstretched arms and his eyes were watching John’s hands abuse his nipples. His gaze flitted to his own throbbing cock and beyond his legs were John’s toned thighs. John’s strong hands were sliding down Sherlock’s body and occasionally digging his fingers into pale flesh. His hands disappeared from Sherlock’s sight and started massaging his arse cheeks.

“How do you want it, Sherlock? Want me to slowly ease you open? Finger by finger so you feel the slow stretch?” John asked and shifted to press the flat of his tongue against Sherlock’s puckered hole.

“Gah! John!”

Every nerve ending in Sherlock’s body was firing erratically and his focus wouldn’t settle on anything specific. His attention would jump from John’s hands to his mottled grip on the headboard, John’s tongue to the pattering of rain on the window, the eager throb of his groin to the illuminated dial of the bedside clock. It took him longer than he liked to realize that John asked him a question.

“Uh...question...how-what?”

John bit at Sherlock’s left arse cheek and smirked at the breathy yelp it provoked. His fingers reached around the gently pressed into the femoral pulse to feel the racing and pounding heartbeat of his lover.

“Or do you want me to take you hard and fast with little preparation? So you can feel that sharp stretch and be split open so you scream and feel it for days afterward. Feel it everytime you walk and sit.”

John felt the increase of Sherlock’s heart rate as he went back to licking at Sherlock’s hole and thrust his tongue through the ring of muscle. The bedframe rattled at the sudden flex of Sherlock’s upper body muscles and he cried out. If John didn’t hurry and fuck him, Sherlock honestly thought he might spontaneously combust. Yeah, that thought was the clearest in his mind.

“Please, John, please, just fuck me. Fuck me hard. Make me scream. Please!” Sherlock cried and it felt like his brain was reaching orgasm before his body.

Endorphins were surging through his body and he started gasping as his body started to tighten in anticipation of his explosive orgasm. He felt John thrust two slick fingers into his eager hole and he keened at the feeling. It was only a few moments later that John thrust his cock into Sherlock and both men yelled at the sensation. John’s eyelids fluttered close as Sherlock’s heat enveloped him and he felt the genius shudder under his hands. Sherlock was mindlessly keening as John thrust against him and ruthlessly stroked against his prostate.

“Almost there, Sherlock,” John ground out as his steady thrusts started to lose their smoothness.

Sherlock moaned in reply and as John started thrusting harder and deeper, he leaned over and wrapped an arm around Sherlock’s torso to wrap his hand around Sherlock’s cock. It was only two thrusts later that Sherlock’s body released the building tension and he came with a hoarse scream. The bed frame jerked as Sherlock thrashed, obeying his body’s screaming need to release the drowning physical reactions. John’s punishing grip on Sherlock’s hips kept him grounded as he rode the tidal wave of his own orgasm. His groan reverberated through his chest and he dropped his clean hand from Sherlock’s hip to the mattress to brace himself as he draped his body over Sherlock. Occasional shudders were dancing through Sherlock’s body as John slowly straightened. The consulting detective’s grip on the headboard was loose and his head sagged between his outstretched arms. John carefully pulled out and gently shifted Sherlock sideway to lay him on his side. Surprised at how quiet the detective was now, John shifted to let the meager light from outside shine on his lover’s face. Sherlock’s arms were still outstretched and loosely wrapped around the headboard and John suddenly realized that Sherlock had blacked out. Amusement and concern warred in John as he quickly checked Sherlock’s heart rate and breathing. Both were elevated but within normal boundaries after a good round of sex. John carefully manipulated Sherlock’s hands to loosen his hold and lowered the man’s arms to the mattress. Cleaning them both up, John pulled the sheet and duvet up and over them. Checking on Sherlock once more, John wrapped his arms around his love and let the driving rain outside lull him to sleep.

 

(!)(!)(!)

 

It was four days later that everything finally came to a head for John. He had gotten a text the night before saying everything was ready and what their departure time was. John already had his bags packed and hidden from Sherlock’s prying eyes. Well, not really hidden; bags packed and put back where they normally stood, in their closet. Want something hidden from a man that can deduce anything? Put it in plain, obvious sight and he didn’t look beyond that.

John was making dinner when Sherlock finally came out of his mind palace from his spot on the couch. The consulting detective’s blue-grey eyes flitted over his lover and seeing nothing different, he relaxed back into the couch cushions. Something had been nagging at Sherlock for the past few days but he couldn’t pin it down and it was driving him mad. Nothing John had done or said was wrong or out of place but there was something that Sherlock’s subconsciousness was noticing.

“Sherlock, come and eat something,” John called and placed the two plates on the table before turning back to the stovetop.

He turned again when he heard footsteps approach. Sherlock rounded in the corner and pulled back the stool to sit. John watched the lithe body move and admired the tailored slacks and form-fitting button down shirt. The sleeves were rolled up to Sherlocks elbows and the forearm muscles corded when he moved the stool. Arousal stirred but John stamped it down quickly; his timeframe didn’t allow for a quick romp. They ate in silence until John figured Sherlock had eaten enough to satisfy his concern.

“Sherlock, we need to talk.”

Despite his lack of knowledge in regards to relationship, Sherlock knew those words usually didn’t mean well especially when spoken in that tone. He swallowed tightly and lowered his fork to the plate. Taking a deep breath, he carefully pushed away the plate and leaned his forearms on the table and stared at his clasped hands before looking up to John. Sherlock clenched his hands together to stop the subtle trembling and locked down his emotions. His mind started to fire off deductions but he quickly shut those down as well. John had lectured him multiple times on trying to deduce during emotionally conversations; it usually led him to jump to conclusions. Better to wait until everything was calmly talked through.

“Yes, John?”

“That military friend that was in trouble? Well, I need to leave the country to help him out. I’ll be gone for a few weeks, maybe a month or two. I won’t be able to call or text you but I will come back.”

‘Hopefully,’ John’s mind finished and he stopped his face from reflecting that thought.

“Okay,” Sherlock replied and immediately started planning on how he was going to track John’s movements. But John knew him; knew his thought process.

“I need you to promise me, swear to me, that you will not look for me. You will stay here and work on cases and keep yourself safe,” John said sternly and gave Sherlock a hard look.

Sherlock stood from the stool and walked into the sitting room, John quickly followed and watched the younger man pace the room.

“John, you and I are together now, we’re in a relationship. Unless I’m mistaken, that means that we share problems. You help me with mine and I help you with yours. That’s what being in a relationship means. I’m coming with you,” Sherlock said and barely restrained his frantic feelings and thoughts.

“Yes, Sherlock, normally you’re correct, absolutely correct but this is an exception. This is something from my past and I can’t risk you getting involved. I can’t protect you and myself at the same time,” John soothed as he approached his lover.

John had an idea of what was whirling through the genius’ mind. Despite John’s assurances that he would come back, Sherlock was now glimpsing a possible future without John by his side. Sherlock ceased his pacing and look closer to John.

“Something from your past? I thought you were going to help an old military buddy?”

A small tic at the corner of John’s right eye was Sherlock’s only confirmation that he had hit something on the head.

“John, I can help; you know I can. Just fill me in and I can help you.”

John groaned and clenched his eyes shut. He had hoped Sherlock would just take his word for it and listened to John for once. He knew it wouldn’t be that easy but he had hoped. Looked like he would have to take Plan B.

“Sherlock, please, I am begging you. If you love me, please just stay here in London and not follow me,” John pleaded and pulled out every manipulative thing he could think of to try and get through to Sherlock.

The consulting detective sneered at the stereotypical guilt plea that he had heard enough during his work. “You know I love you, John, don’t insult me by trying that weak ploy.”

Sherlock turned away and continued pacing. Fine, if John wanted him to promise not to follow him then Sherlock would promise and then follow him. All’s fair in love and war, he mused as he stopped pacing and sighed deeply. He had to put on the mask of a put upon lover who would grudgingly comply.

“Fine. I promise I won’t follow you. I’ll wait for you to come back,” Sherlock said quietly as he looked up at John.

John sighed and happiness flashed across his face followed by a brief glimpse of guilt. Sherlock wasn’t sure why there was guilt but attributed it to John’s guilt of questioning Sherlock’s love. John felt guilty because he knew Sherlock was lying. After living with Sherlock for so long, John had finally pinned down what Sherlock’s tell was when he lied. His tell was unique. Everyone had a tell when they lied; a tic, lick of the lips, adjust their clothing. Sherlock’s tell was he didn’t have one. Everything went blank. He forced himself to not have a tell and created his own special tell of not having one. It gave John a headache when he thought about it too much but it was true. Now, he could tell when Sherlock lied. And he was lying now. Alright, now to Plan C. John didn’t like Plan C.

John sighed and thrust one hand in his back pocket while his other hand ran through his hair to ruffle it. “Thank you, Sherlock.”

Sherlock nodded glumly as John approached and wrapped his arms around him to hug the taller man. John breathed in the scent of Sherlock before leaning back to kiss Sherlock. Sherlock sighed into the kiss and regretted lying to John but knew it was for his own good. Those thoughts skidded to a stop when a sharp pain pierced his shoulder. Jerking back from John’s lips with a soft cry, he stumbled away while grabbing at his shoulder and looked up at the former army doctor. A syringe was in John’s left hand and the plunger was fully depressed. Sherlock looked to John’s face in horror and saw the heavy sadness.

“John, what-”

His legs buckled and he threw a hand out to stop his fall or at least slow it. John stepped towards him but stopped when Sherlock stepped away. His legs were slowly turning to jelly and he tried to get away from John. Now he knew why there was guilt in John’s eyes. He planned this; knew Sherlock wouldn’t stay behind. Knew he would have to drug him. John drugged him; against his will with no medical purpose. Resentment churned in Sherlock’s gut and he knew John could read the accusation in his eyes. He spied his mobile on the arm of his chair and moved towards it but his legs gave out, sending him towards the floor. He grunted when a firm arm wrapped around his torso to stop his descent to the hard floor. His gaze roved around the room as John manhandled him to the couch and laid him out on his side. John knelt beside the couch and started to check over Sherlock’s vitals. Fuzziness was encroaching on Sherlock’s extremities and he couldn’t control his arms. What had John given him? His mind roughly calculated how much longer he would remain conscious. John would have obviously taken into account Sherlock’s drug history and his tolerance to most drugs. So maybe, five or six minutes. He forced himself to swallow and managed to get out a word.

“Why?”

John sighed as he brushed Sherlock’s hair back and gently cupped his cheek. “Because I know you would have tried to follow me even though you promised. I know your tell when you lie. I have to keep you safe; or as safe as you can be. You can’t come with me, Sherlock, and I know you wouldn’t stay. So this was my next option.”

Sherlock slowly blinked as the room tilted slightly before righting itself. His vision was going in and out as he looked up at John. How did John know he was lying? He had a tell? What was it? He could see weariness and sorrow thick in John’s eyes. He wanted to reach up and wipe away that look; he wanted to make things better for his John. Despite his resentment, the logical half of him acknowledged that John’s actions were probably for the best. Sherlock’s hand just twitched but John noticed it and gently gripped the long fingered hand. John leaned forward and kissed Sherlock’s forehead. He kept his mouth there and breathed in deeply before speaking against Sherlock’s skin.

“I will come back...if you’ll have me,” John whispered and leaned back to look into the bleary blue-grey eyes.

Why would he not want John back? Sherlock wondered and felt the darkness start to close in on him. He blinked slowly and kept his gaze on John. As sappy as he knew it was, he wanted John to be the last thing he saw before slipping into unconsciousness. Just before he slipped away he heard a softly spoken ‘I love you’ that followed him into the darkness. That was nice.

John straightened and checked Sherlock over before standing. He stared down at the unconscious genius and draped a blanket over his lower body before striding to their bedroom. Collecting his bags, John glanced around the flat one last time before hurrying down the stairs. Just as he opened the door, a cab pulled up and he quickly tossed in his bags. Snapping out an address, he sat back and watched the London nightlife roll by. Twenty-fives minutes later, the cab stopped and John stepped out. Telling the cabbie to wait, John jogged up the stairs to the elaborate townhouse. Ringing the bell a few times, John nervously glanced around the posh neighborhood until the door opened to reveal Mycroft dressed in designer jeans and an untucked button down. The sleeves were rolled up and he was barefoot. John didn’t think he had ever seen Mycroft this dressed down before.

“John?”

John had also never seen Mycroft this surprised before.

“I don’t have much time Mycroft. I’ve left Sherlock at our flat. He’s drugged and should wake up in about ten hours with no ill effects. Don’t freak out, Sherlock didn’t drug himself, I did it. I need to leave London to end some unfinished business of mine and I can’t have Sherlock following me.”

Mycroft blinked and regrouped quickly.

“Is everything alright? Anything I can help with?”

John chuckled humorlessly and dropped his gaze to the welcome mat before looking up at Mycroft again. Mycroft was startled to see the wide range of emotions that raced across John’s eyes before a wall of steel slammed down. Mycroft suddenly had the strong feeling that there were layers to John Watson that neither Holmes had touched on.

“Nothing that even you can touch on, Mycroft. Now, I just want you to keep an eye on Sherlock. If you don’t hear from me in two weeks then I need you to give him a message for me.”

Five minutes later, John jogged back to the cab and slipped in. Mycroft watched as the cab pulled away before disappearing back into his townhome briefly. Emerging and locking the door behind him, he jogged down the stairs while tapping quickly on his phone. While he pulled on his jacket, a black town car pulled up. Snapping the destination at the driver, Mycroft anxiously worked on his phone until the town car stopped at Baker Street. Dismissing the drive, Mycroft left himself into the flat and climbed the stairs two at a time. Looking over at the couch, he immediately zeroed in on Sherlock’s still form and Mycroft approached to check his brother over. Mycroft trusted John’s medical opinion but to leave a sedated individual was risky. His brother was breathing deeply, no obstructions, heart rate steady; Mycroft breathed a small sigh of relief and slipped off his jacket. He had about nine hours to wait until Sherlock woke. Nine hours for Mycroft to track down where John Watson was heading. John never said anything about Mycroft keeping an eye on him.

 

(!)(!)(!)

 

Sherlock groaned and snuggled deeper into the sofa. He pulled the blanket up higher so it covered his ear and cheek to seal in the warmth. He was warm and comfortable here on the couch under the blanket that smelled like John. Hmmm, John. John with syringe. John asking him not to follow him. Sherlock’s right eye popped open and the sitting room came into focus. It was empty but the desk chair had been moved; it was turned facing the couch. A jacket was hung on the back and a blackberry was on the coffee table; a blackberry that wasn’t Sherlock’s. Soft noises trickled from the kitchen and Sherlock slowly pulled down the blanket just as a person stepped from the kitchen.

Mycroft emerged carrying two steaming cups of tea and he set one on the coffee table in front of Sherlock. “Seems I timed it just right.”

Mycroft sat in the chair and crossed his legs while blowing on the cup of tea to cool it. Sherlock swung his legs off the side of the couch and sat up in one smooth motion. The sudden motion did send his equilibrium teetering but it quickly righted. Pressing a hand to his temple, Sherlock squeezed his eyes shut tightly before opening them to hopefully clear the blurriness. When he felt steady enough, Sherlock reached out and carefully picked up the cup of tea. Taking a small sip, he made a slight face but swallowed. Not as good as John’s but it was good.

“Why are you here?” Sherlock asked quietly, keeping his acidic remarks to himself.

“Tell me what you remember from last night and I’ll tell you my half so we both have a complete version of events.”

Sherlock nodded and paused to organize his thoughts. “John received a phone call a few days ago. He became very tense and left to meet someone. He later said it was a military buddy that needed help. Since then he’s been a bit more tense and distant. Last night, he told me that he had to leave and I shouldn’t go after him. I told him I wouldn’t but was going to anyway. He then drugged me. Stressed again then I couldn’t follow him. I woke up here after that.”

Sherlock bit his bottom lip and set the cup on the table. He was personally annoyed that John had managed to hide all this from him. What kind of detective was he that his lover could hide all this from him. He focused on Mycroft as his brother told him what John had said once he appeared at Mycroft’s door.

Mycroft refrained from telling Sherlock John’s last words. He would hold onto for two weeks, just as he promised John he would. He watched as Sherlock stood and found his laptop amid the flat’s clutter. He sat on his chair and balanced the laptop on his knees. Mycroft knew what Sherlock was looking for and waited for the inevitable outcome.

“His phone’s turned off; I can’t track it. Mycroft, I need you to search outgoing flights from all the airports. Do all of them, not just locals,” Sherlock said as he worked on the laptop.

“Sherlock.”

His brother wasn’t paying attention. Mycroft sighed and stood to walk to Sherlock’s chair. He closed the laptop and narrowly missed Sherlock’s fingers. His brother looked at him in outrage before he read Mycroft’s resigned expression. Mycroft sat in John’s chair and ignored the dirty look.

“While you were still...asleep. I searched all outgoing flights for John’s name and found no matches. I checked all outgoing military transports with the same results. I initiated a facial scan of all security checkpoints at the airports and found no matches. John’s Watson’s passport has not been used and no one matching his description has been seen at the airports or the train stations or the docks. There has been no activity on his bank cards. The phone call he received came from a burner phone that has already been disposed of,” Mycroft explained quietly, miffed that John Watson managed to elude him.

Sherlock opened his mouth to speak and then closed it. He opened it again and hesitated before speaking. “There must be some trail. Did you track him with the CCTV cameras after he left your townhouse?”

Mycroft nodded and grimaced. “Yes, but the cameras only tracked him so far and then he...eluded the cameras.”

Sherlock stared at Mycroft in shock. “You mean he disappeared?”

Mycroft grunted softly and if Sherlock wasn’t so focused on finding John he would have found it amusing. Sherlock continued to pour over his memories of John from the past few days and only vaguely nodded to Mycroft when his older brother departed. Sherlock quickly stood and hurried up to John’s old room. They used it mainly for storage of whenever John was really pissed off with Sherlock and wanted to sleep somewhere else. He noticed that things had been disturbed since the last time he was up here but he couldn’t remember what had been in those places. Gripping at his hair, he flew back down the stair and back to his laptop. He would find John.

 

(!)(!)(!)

 

“Alright, what’s our first move?” Rabbit asked as he dropped the heavy duffel bag at his feet.

They had just arrived at the safe house in Siena after an uneventful ship ride. John stretched his back as he slowly walked around the living room and carefully pushed aside a curtain to look at the surrounding neighborhood. The name John Watson was still well known in the military and clandestine circles and a lot of favors were owed to him. This was just one small favor.

“Ask around and find out where the military folk hang out. Bricks has killed ex-military men looking for me so that’s where he’ll start. Let’s find out where they congregate and start watching for him. Make contact with the Siena Police Force and smooth the way. Put in a call to Jezzabell, she has friends in this part of the world,” John said as he watched out the window.

He heard the men start setting up gear behind him as he pulled out his current burner mobile. The only thing unique on the mobile was a single photograph of a certain consulting detective. He had texted it to himself from his old mobile and then deleted the history. The photo was of Sherlock stretched out in his chair with his ankles crossed and his hands steepled under his chin. His head was resting back with his eyes closed. The sun was shining in from the windows and down on the long body. The maroon shirt glowed in the bright sunlight and contrasted sharply with the pale skin and dark hair. It bordered angelic, John mused and sighed before snapping his mobile shut. He couldn’t get lost in memories of his lover or he wouldn’t be able to complete his job.

“Let’s finish this, Bricks,” John murmured and turned away from the window.

 

(!)(!)(!)

 

John jerked upright and bit his lip so hard he tasted blood. His heart was pounding in his chest and his lungs were pulling oxygen like it was going to disappear. Wiping a trembling hand over his sweaty brow, John swung his legs to the side and leaned his elbows on his knees. Taking a deep breath, he paused a moment before standing and pulling on a tee shirt. A glance at his watch told him it was a little after two in the morning. The inky night outside the window was the only thing visible. John opened the door silently and walked down the hallway and down a few steps to the main sitting room. D turned from a window and nodded quietly at John before turning back to look out the window. Since arriving in Siena, they had cycled through a watch schedule to make sure Bricks didn’t sneak up on them. They had been in the city for a little over a week and estimated Bricks would arrive soon. They had everything in place; the trap was laid. Just time to wait for the rat.

John quickly made a cup of tea and blew on it while walking towards D. John stood at the next window down the wall from where D stood. Both men stared out quietly and the only noise was the occasional slurp from from John’s tea.

“Nightmare again?”

A quiet grunt was John’s response as he took comfort in the warmth and scent from the tea. He took another sip before answering. “I thought I had left all this behind. To be thrust back into it has awoken some dormant...concerns.”

D nodded without looking at the other man. None of the men on the team were idiots. They knew that Jekyll had something to protect. They didn’t know what but it was obvious. Every once in a while they would see a look come over Jekyll’s face as if his mind was somewhere else and the tension in his face would soften. Just as quickly, it would disappear behind the steel mask that Jekyll kept locked in place.

“Will you leave once we finish this?” D asked and moved to another window.

“Yes. This is no longer my life. I have something back in London that I would really like to be able to go back to.”

D glanced over at the other man and tilted his head slightly at the subtext he heard in that statement.

“You think you won’t be welcomed back. Why?”

“The person I’m involved with is intelligent. Amazingly so. That person will be highly put out that I did not confide my real past and what all I’ve done. And when that person finds out about everything I did.” John glanced down at the carpet under his feet before looking back out the window. “If I can’t forgive myself for my actions,  how can I expect that person to forgive me?”

“Does that person love you?”

“I have been told that I am loved.”

“But you doubt it?”

John chuckled mirthlessly and turned to place the empty mug on a nearby table.

“Let’s just say my lover is new to the whole concept of relationships. I’m waiting for that person to realize that there are so many better options out there than me. Someone not as...broken...as I am.”

D turned to face Jekyll and waited for the other man to face him as well.

“If that person leaves you then they are not worth your time, Jekyll. You are a good man. The best I’ve known. You’re brave, compassionate, fierce, loyal, a killer shot and have a dynamite left hook. You just keep it all hidden under your tough but soft exterior.”

“Like a teddy bear?” John asked with a faint twitch of his lips.

D wobbled his head side to side before answering. “More like a teddy bear cutching a molotov cocktail in one hand and a grenade in the other with a bowie knife at his lower back.”

John chuckled and slowly shook his head. He looked out the window again and rolled his shoulders. “Go to bed, D. I’ll take the watch from here.”

 

(!)(!)(!)

 

Mycroft was becoming concerned about his brother. Despite Mycroft’s assurances that he couldn’t track John, Sherlock was determined to find a trail. This had led to Sherlock going four days with no sleep or food. Mycroft watched as Sherlock collapsed and was unconscious, well asleep, for ten hours. He had eaten the sandwich Mycroft had made and went back to researching. That was two days ago. Sherlock had collapsed again and Mycroft was now waiting for him to wake. Mycroft slouched in Sherlock’s chair staring at the wall behind the sofa where Sherlock had tacked pictures and passenger lists from multiple flights. He had been grasping at straws. Going through the hundreds of pages of passenger lists and conducting background checks on all the people. Seeing who had fake identifies.

It was only two days shy of the two week deadline John had given Mycroft. Given the circumstances, Mycroft rationalized that he could be forgiven two days. A crash echoed down the hallway from Sherlock’s room and Mycroft cringed slightly. Yeah, two days was forgivable.

Sherlock staggered into the sitting room while rubbing a hand over his face. He looked around the room until his gaze finally settled on Mycroft.

“How long?”

Mcroft raised an eyebrow but knew what his brother was asking. “Five hours and some change.”

Sherlock groaned and walked to the laptop and stack of papers. “I’ve lost five hours because you let me sleep. You should have woken me up.”

“I tried, Sherlock. But when your transport shuts down like that, it’s called falling unconscious. John asked you not to follow him and you’re trying your hardest to do so; against his wishes. Why?”

Sherlock was silent as he worked on his laptop. Mycroft huffed in annoyance and stood to approach his brother. He stared down at his stubborn brother and tried to read the genius.

“Tell me why, Sherlock.”

Sherlock huffed and continued on his laptop. Mycroft noted that he was striking the keys harder than before; obvious taking his frustration at the situation and his brother out on the poor laptop. Rolling his eyes, Mycroft took a deep breath before his hand darted out and jerked the laptop out from under Sherlock’s fingers. The reaction was quick as Sherlock surged to his feet and stood toe to toe with Mycroft. Mycroft held the laptop behind his back and kept his gaze on Sherlock. Neither man spoke but the plea was in Sherlock’s eyes.

“Tell me, ‘Lock.”

Mycroft lowered his barriers and let Sherlock see that he was concerned as a brother. That nothing he said would ever be brought back up. After the incident with the Flannery brothers, the brothers had continued to argue like normal but occasionally they would put that aside. Whenever one of them used the other’s nickname, it was personal and would stay that way. They swore that whatever was brought up would never be brought up again to use as ammunition. When full names were used again then the ceasefire was over. Five months later and the pact seemed to be holding. This was one of those times.

Sherlock sighed and dropped his gaze from his brother to John’s chair.

“I’m experiencing a fraction of what John went through after...I jumped. It’s only slightly similar because again, we’re both alive. Well, as far as I know he’s still alive but I don’t know for how much longer. I wish he had trusted me enough to let me help him.”

“That sounds a lot like what John had to go through after you jumped and came back. John asked the same thing. Why couldn’t you have trusted him enough to let him help? Did you value his input and experience so little that you put him aside like a toy to come back to?” Mycroft asked quietly and reached up to gently wrap a hand around Sherlock’s neck.

Sherlock’s gaze snapped back to look at Mycroft. “I’ve never viewed John as a toy, My! I did it to protect him.”

Mycroft was already nodding. “Yes, ‘Lock, which is what John is doing now. He’s protecting you. And the reason he didn’t take you with him is the same reason that you didn’t take him with you.”

Sherlock sighed and took a deep breath. He knew the answer even though he didn’t like it. “If John had been with me, I wouldn’t have been able to do my job to my fullest capability. He would have been a distraction.”

“Yes. A distraction you did not need. The same goes for John and what he’s doing now.”

Sherlock’s eyes closed and felt his racing mind calm somewhat. Mycroft was correct. John and Sherlock’s positions had been switched and Sherlock was not happy with it.

“Thank you, My.”

“You’re welcome, ‘Lock.” They stood in silence for a moment before Mycroft spoke again. “Sherlock, when John came to see me, he told me one other thing. I was supposed to wait two weeks but I feel I should tell you now. He asked me to pass on a message.”

Sherlock straightened and the emotional walls were back up. “What was the message?”

“All he said was asparagus gruyere tart.”

Mycroft saw the momentary confusion flood Sherlock’s face until his entire face cleared in realization. With an excited cry, Sherlock grabbed his coat and flew out the door. Mycroft shrugged his shoulders and collected his things. He had done his part.

 

(!)(!)(!)

 

Sherlock handed over a few notes and flew out of the cabbie once he reached the farmers market. He weaved between the tourists and vendors in frantic search of Corrie’s vegetable stand. The only time asparagus gruyere tart ever came up was the Parsley case and only one person had said that exact phrase. Judith was just finishing up dealing with a patron when Sherlock stepped into her line of sight. She flinched and glanced away as Sherlock approached slowly. She took a deep breath before straightening and looking up at Sherlock.

“Sherlock.”

“Judith.”

They stared at each other for a moment before Judith sighed and knelt behind the counter. She rummaged around for a moment before emerging again with an oversized manila envelope. She ran her fingers down the edge for a moment while she stared at the envelope in her hands.

“I don’t know what’s in this but I know how tortured John looked when he gave it to me to hold onto. Said you would come looking for something and that I was to give it to you. All I know is that John Watson is a good man; one of the best. What’s in this envelope, what’s in his past doesn’t change who he is now. His past has made him the man he is today. Don’t let him go because of things he did years ago.”

She hesitated before holding out the envelope to him.

“Thank you, Judith.”

Sherlock slipped the envelope into his coat’s inner pocket and turned to leave. Judith’s words followed Sherlock as he made his way back to the flat at Baker Street. The envelope was burning a hole into Sherlock coat but he refused to open it until he reached the flat. He didn’t know what was in it or how much and didn’t know how long it would take him to go through it all. He wanted to also do it in private; the safety of their home.

Upon entering the flat, he pulled the envelope out and set it on the desk before pulling off his coat and scarf. Walking into the kitchen, he started a cup of coffee. Once it was ready, he picked up the mug and leaned against the counter while he sipped at the liquid and stared at the envelope. The flat was silent except for the noises filtering through the windows from the street below. To Sherlock, the envelope was ominous. He couldn’t really say why but he wasn’t sure if he wanted to read what was in that envelope. It was enough to make John leave the country. Despite the envelope just being across the room, Sherlock felt like there was an chasm between himself and that envelope. A chasm he wasn’t sure if he wanted to cross. Sighing, he topped off his coffee and approached the desk. He cleared everything off except the envelope and his mug before he sat down in the chair and slowly opened the flap. He withdrew a stack of three files bound together with a rubber band and a handwritten letter from John on the top. Two of the files were dusty like they had been sitting around somewhere in hiding. The third file was clean and fresh looking. Setting the files down, he took a sip of coffee before reading over the letter.

 

Sherlock - I’m sorry for drugging you. I’m sorry for leaving you behind. I’m sorry for lying to you. I’m sorry for a lot of things over my life. More than you know about.

 

The files I left you should explain it all. The files contain all the facts, the logic you crave and can understand. This letter explains the emotional reasoning. A year into my army service, I saw a refugee camp of women and children be slaughtered by a rebel army. It was senseless; no reason why they were murdered. Looking back, that was when some of my nightmares started. A few days later, I was patching up a special forces operative. After exchanging some words, I was eventually transferred to a special forces sect. This crew went where they were needed to terminate dangerous individuals. The kind that political and open channels couldn’t affect. But we weren’t interested in open channels. We were special ops. We committed acts under the radar of the law. We made a difference; I felt we were making a difference. Then everything changed. The orders we were getting started to make less sense. Basically we became someone’s personal assassination team. So we cut ties; became military issue mercenaries. We decided what jobs we would take. A few more years passed in that way until I was shot. I retired from the team and went back to London to recuperate. That’s when I met you and you know the rest of the story.

So, yes, I was a mercenary for a while. I murdered people without a second thought to why they received a death warrant. I tortured people to get information. I kept seeing the dead women and children and the injustice of it all. I vowed I would do everything in my power to prevent that happening again.

I’m not proud of what I did. I can’t forgive myself for the lives I took during this time. For the lives I tortured. And if I can’t forgive myself, I can’t expect you to forgive me.

I’m not sure if I’ll survive this last job. The man I’m going after is as good as I am and younger. Bloody hell, I taught him and trained him. He’s been doing this while I’ve been in London. So, better in all regards. I want to be able to come back to you but I’m not sure I’ll be able.

I love you. Never doubt that. I love you and I wish...I hope, I can come back to you. But, if I do survive, I don’t think you’ll accept me back after you have seen everything I’ve done. I will always remember when I was loved by Sherlock Holmes. - John

 

Sherlock lowered the letter to the desk and sat back in his chair as he stared at it blankly. The coffee sat ignored on the desk as he straightened and pulled the files towards him. For the next three hours he pored over the files and what they contained. He was startled by what he read and learned about John. There were also reports and pictures of the refugee camp. Sherlock was use to gruesome sights but the photos made his stomach churn. The other file detailed the multiple jobs John had gone on. Difficult jobs that actually had Sherlock wondering how John managed to accomplish them. Granted he wasn’t the only man on the team but John played an integral part as the medic and the sniper. His sharpshooter marks were off the charts; he was a professional at hand to hand combat and knew various types of martial arts. The photos were of a much younger John. The photo John had fewer laugh lines, a sterner face. Sherlock quickly decided that he didn’t like this version of John. He picked up the last file; the recent one. There was a sticky note attached to the front of the file in John’s handwriting. ‘If you ever see this man in London. Run. If I’m not available, find Mycroft and give him this file.’

Opening the file, he found it was the personnel file of a Lt. Robert Crompton, aka Bricks. The file included everything John’s team had gathered on him. Witness statements, surveillance video. There were also copies of the mission that started everything. Bricks’ brother went off the reservation and started killing innocents. John hunted him down and killed him against orders to bring him in alive. Bricks then went after John. The report detailed the battle that followed and everyone’s injuries. Sherlock’s eyes took in the detailed injuries that John had earned and he mentally connected the photographed injuries with the scars on the body he knew. Sherlock looked at the other photographs and immediately saw the similarities in the victim’s Crompton left behind to his lover. Former military, shot in the shoulder; and they use to work together. There was a back story between Crompton and John. One that wasn’t printed on the pages in Sherlock’s hands.

Did reading the files change his view on John. Yes. Was it a bad change? No, not really. He could understand why John was concerned. Any normal person would see what John Watson was capable of and be terrified. But to Sherlock, who laughed at the word normal being used in connection to his name, the extra knowledge made him only want John Watson more. Knowing what those hands were capable of was a pure shot of lust and arousal straight to Sherlock’s libido. Yeah, say the word dangerous and both John Watson and Sherlock Holmes come running; fighting to be the first one to get there. Would Sherlock welcome John back with open arms? Yes, unequivocally yes. Would he occasionally think of the men John murdered while he was a mercenary? Yes. Would that change how Sherlock viewed John? Yes. Was Sherlock willing to look past everything John did in his past? Yes, because Sherlock didn’t care about the past. He was only concerned with their present and their future.

He sighed and dropped the files on the table before standing slowly and stretching his back out. Alright, so now he had all this extra data. He paced the sitting room with one hand on his hip and the other hand was rubbing a fingertip across his bottom lip. He stared at the file of Crompton and mentally pursued different avenues of attack. If he couldn’t track John, then he’ll track the man John was hunting.

 

(!)(!)(!)

 

John hunched his shoulders against the driving rain and jogged across the street. He loved the rain of London but hated rain anywhere else. London rain just felt different; it felt like home and he wasn’t at home. Opening the door a little more forcefully than was really necessary, John locked it behind him and jogged up the stairs to the apartment the team had rented out. Slipping his wet jacket off and hanging it up, he approached Reese who looked up from his laptop.

“Jekyll, we’ve got eyes on Bricks. D found him at a nearby market. No physical altercations.”

“Well, what happened?” John asked and slowly lowered himself into the chair opposite of Reese.

Reese shifted uncomfortably before answering. “D couldn’t take him down. Bricks was holding a gun on a child. He only spoke with D and gave him a message to pass on.”

“A message for whom?” John asked, knowing it was probably for him but hoping against it.

“He said for Watson to meet him at Campo Square at four in the morning. To finish Redstart.”

John slowly nodded and glanced out the window at the storm raging outside. He sighed and ran a hand through his hair before curling it around the back of his neck. He was anxious. Something felt wrong to him. There was something his gut was trying to tell him to watch out for but he couldn’t pinpoint what it was. Looking at the clock mounted on the wall, he nodded and flinched when a loud boom of thunder shook the building.

“Alright, get Rabbit up and find a place for him to set up with a rifle. Same with D. The Square has a lot of high places for them to set up. We are not trying to take Bricks in. I want him finished. Hopefully, this storm will be done by then,” John said and stood to collect his gun.

The team started getting everything ready. John occasionally glanced out the window at the storm raging but it showed no signs of abating. Rabbit and D left early to find good spots to set up. They were on strict orders to not take a shot unless they could guarantee a kill shot. John didn’t want to torture him; he just wanted him flat out dead. Quickly and with no fuss. Reese would stay with John when he went to meet with Bricks. Reese and John stepped onto the street and pulled their coats tighter around them.

“This weather will be a challenge for D and Rabbit,” he commented quietly and John nodded as they started walking.

John’s gaze was darting side to side and up at the surrounding buildings. He was tense and anxious. More so than was normal for him. Focusing on Reese, John straightened his shoulders and focused on the cobbly street laid out in front of him.

“Yeah, Bricks is going to use it to his advantage. He’ll want to finish this with me. Hand to hand combat probably. He’d want to inflict as much pain as he can. He’ll want to watch me bleed out like his brother.”

Reese suddenly stopped and it took John a few more steps before he realized his companion wasn’t walking with him anymore. He stopped and turned to stare at Reese.

“Reese?”

“I know that tone, Jekyll. You’re not planning on making it out of here. You’re planning on dying and taking Bricks with you. Tell me I’m wrong,” Reese snapped and John stared at him stonily as the rain trickled down his face.

“What would you have me say, Reese? The love of my life is a genius and I’m nothing but a former mercenary. Why would he want to stay with me? I’ve lied to him about my past. He doesn’t take well to being lied to especially by someone he thought he could trust. I’ve just given him a way out as much as it hurts me.”

“Did you talk to him? Did he say he wanted to end it? I’ve seen you when you think no one is watching you. You get a stupid smile on your face when you think of him. I bet he’s tearing up London trying to find you.”

John’s gaze dropped to the wet stones under his feet. “Only because I was a solution to his boredom. I always wondered if he felt something for me or if I was just a momentary blip on his radar. Better to leave on my own volition than be asked to leave.”

John turned and started walking again, knowing that Reese would eventually catch up and not say anything. A sectioned part of John was screaming in rage and the unfairness of it all. He hadn’t wanted this part of his life to come back. It was supposed to stay hidden away; only brought out during dark nights when he reevaluated his life and choices. But he couldn’t be that upset. All his choices and decisions had brought him to Sherlock’s side. To the side of his lover; the man he would kill for time and time again. The man he would let go if that’s what he wanted.

The rain water had long since soaked through John’s clothing. He was chilled but the talk with Reese had calmed him. He knew what the eventual outcome of tonight would be. He had accepted it even if he was overall unhappy about it.

They neared the end of the small street and cautiously looked out into the empty square. The storm had driven everyone inside and the occasional streetlamps cast an eerie glow around the rim of the square. There were no lamps towards the center of the square but there was enough residual light from the lamps and the moon that they could see across the square.

“Any idea where D and Rabbit are holed up?” John asked quietly and confirmed his weapon was secured at his lower back.

“No idea,” Reese replied as a gust of wind snapped at his clothing.

John looked down at his watch before rolling his shoulders.

“Stay out of sight until I need you.”

Reese nodded and stepped back into the shadows as John stepped out into the square. John’s instincts and senses were tingling as he slowly turned to survey the entire square as he continued to walk. His body was hyper-aware of everything his body was doing, hearing and seeing. Adrenaline was an amazing thing, he mused and felt the rain water trickle down his neck. The rain was making it difficult to see anything clearly but John had worked in worse weather. He saw movement from the corner of his eye and his head snapped around to see two figures emerge from another alley. The shadows and lack of light were making it difficult to tell who they were. Both were stumbling slightly like they had too much to drink but John knew better to discard first assumptions. That and all the stores had closed down hours earlier. John’s back tensed as the two approached him and he soon recognized Bricks. The other man had a hood over his head and his hands were bound behind his back. He only wore a pair of slacks and a button down shirt against the cold rain. John only spared the captive a brief glance after that initial observation. Bricks knew exactly what he was doing. He knew there would be snipers around the square. The wind and rain would make aiming difficult and a poorly aimed bullet could injury the captive or an innocent civilian in the surrounding buildings. John regretted that the poor fool got pulled into this mess. Bricks nudged a knee against the back of his captive’s knee and sent the person to the stones on one knee painfully. The other leg folded slowly until the person was on their knees. John could now see the gun Bricks had pressed against the hooded head.

“It’s been a while, Jekyll.”

“Not as long as I would have liked,” John replied and moved to take a step closer.

Bricks reaction was immediate. He stepped closer to the captive and pressed the gun tighter against the hood, hard enough to tilt the head. “Ah, ah, Jekyll. That’s close enough. Wouldn’t want any more injuries on our mutual friend here.”

“After all the men I’ve killed during my life, you think I’m concerned with one more? If it only takes one more body to kill you, then I’ll happily do it to stop you.”

Bricks grinned and John suddenly felt his stomach drop just before Bricks pulled off the hood. He was gagged and his eyes were blindfolded but John immediately recognized his lover. The dark curls were plastered to his head and blood streamed down the right side of his face from his temple. His jaw was bruises but there were no other visible injuries. John’s face remained impassive but inside he was panicking. This was not supposed to happen; Sherlock was supposed to be back in London, safe.

“Well, if you feel that way, Jekyll, then put a bullet in this bloke’s head and I’ll stand quietly while you do the same to me. If not, then toss away your gun and tell the rest of the guys to stand down.”

John gritted his teeth and slowly reached for his gun. He could see Bricks finger tighten around the trigger as he slowly pulled the gun out by the tip of the handle. He tossed it aside and held his hands out to the sides. Understand the sharp jerked of Bricks’ head, John shrugged off his coat and tossed it aside as well before slowly turning in place to show that he wasn’t hiding any other weapons.

“Everyone stand down! D and Rabbit! Stand down! That’s a direct order!” John yelled against the rain as he slowly turned.

He could see Sherlock’s head tilt slightly to hear John better and better pinpoint where he was located. John wished he could see Sherlock’s eyes but realized it was probably better this way. He wouldn’t get distracted by the silent accusations Sherlock would certainly be throwing his way. Sherlock wouldn’t have to watch as John was killed.

“How did you get him?” John asked as his hands dropped to his sides.

“Imagine my surprise when he actually found me. Granted he didn’t recognize me at first. Guess I have changed a good bit since my military photo was taken. I didn’t realize who I had until he moaned your name after I roughed him up a bit. Thought he’d be a nice...long time no see gift for you,” Bricks commented and John felt the fury crawl up his spine.

“He has nothing to do with this, Bricks. Just let him go and we can finish this.”

“He has everything to do with this. You killed my brother. I’m going to kill the closest thing you have to a brother so you can feel the agony,” Bricks snapped, rain water spraying from his lips.

“Your brother needed killing! He went after innocent civilians for no reason. That wasn’t the purpose of our team. He lost sight of that,” John yelled, hoping to get Bricks angry enough to make an error.

John remembered that Bricks had a volatile temper but his brother had managed to keep it in check. Now, without his brother, John was hoping that temper would get the best of him. Get Bricks focused on John and off Sherlock. Anything to keep Sherlock safe.

“No, my brother thought outside the box. Those women were spawning terrorists! Those children would grow up to be terrorists. He simply went to the source to stop them. He was a visionary, he was a hero. And you killed him for it!”

John could see how close Bricks was to losing it. Just one more nudge.

“I didn’t kill him. I put him down like the rabid mongrel that he was,” John snarled and flexed his muscles, knowing what was coming.

The crack of a high speed projectile breaking the sound barrier was John’s trigger. He was already sprinting towards Bricks when the stone’s at Bricks’ feet exploded in stone shrapnel. John barrelled into Bricks’ and grabbed the other man’s wrist to twist it as they fell to release the gun. Hitting the ground and rolling, John used the momentum to launch Bricks away from him. John rolled into a crouch and watched Bricks tumble.

“Reese! Get Sherlock out of here!” John roared without looking over his shoulder.

John didn’t have to worry about Reese following his orders. He knew how important Sherlock was to John. Putting his lover from his mind, John watched as Bricks slowly stood and advanced on John. John stood and held his hands up in loose fists as he countered Bricks’ movements. He had to finish this fight quickly or Bricks would just eventually wear him down. He had about ten years on John and had stayed in much better shape. Blocking Bricks’ first blow, John felt the impact race down his arm and the appendage went momentarily numb. Yeah, dirty fighting to end it would be the best.

 

(!)(!)(!)

 

Sherlock barely had time to react when the gunshot reached his ears and Bricks was knocked from his side. Hearing John yell something, Sherlock turned towards him but froze when someone grabbed him and spun him roughly. Struggling against the tight grip and cursing against the gag, Sherlock felt himself be manhandled until the blindfold was torn away. Blinking at the dim light and rainwater, Sherlock’s gaze was immediately drawn to the two men fighting fifteen feet away from him. He recognized John’s stature and cringed when he saw the blows they were exchanging. The gag was loosened and eventually fell away as Sherlock look over his shoulder at the African American working on his bindings.

“Leave me be. Go help John,” Sherlock snapped and jerked his head towards the other two.

“No. He told me to keep you safe and that’s what I’m going to do. This is between Bricks and Jekyll.”

Sherlock snarled as the bindings around his wrists fell away. Before he could make a move towards John and Bricks, his arm was twisted behind his back and he cried out softly at the sharp pain.

“Don’t struggle and I won’t twist anymore. This is between Bricks and Jekyll. Jekyll told me to keep you safe and he scares me more than you do,” Reese said calmly and relaxed his grip slightly to ease the pressure on Sherlock’s shoulder.

Sherlock turned back and watched the two men fight in the rain. Bricks had speed and quickness on his side while John was more experienced and was overall tougher. Sherlock recognized different forms of martial arts training and was frankly amazed at the speed John possessed. Each man took a pounding but remained standing. Surprisingly, the fight ended quickly. John lashed out with a foot and Sherlock heard the pop as Bricks’ knee dislocated and he went down. John staggered away and bent over his knees while staring at Bricks cradling his knee. His button down shirt was soaked through and there were patches of pink where blood had been washed away by the rainwater. John slowly straightened and approached Bricks.

“You shouldn’t have come after me, Bricks,” John said quietly at the angry young man.

“I did it for my brother and what you did to him. You may have won the battle, Jekyll, but you lost the war. Do you think your lover boy will take you back after learning what you’re capable of? After he sees you kill me in cold blood?” Bricks snarled with venom in his voice.

“This was never about winning a battle or war. This was about stopping an angry young man killing innocents because he lost his brother. I am sorry for what happened to him but he had it coming. You knew what he was doing was wrong. We asked you to do something about it but you didn’t. And it was left to me to fix the problem,” John replied sadly, ignoring the remarks about Sherlock.

“Am I a problem to fix now?”

John stared at him sadly feeling the water run down his face and neck into his soaked shirt.

“Yes. And if seeing me kill you makes Sherlock stop loving me, then I’ll deal with it.”

With practiced motions, John grabbed Bricks’ chin and the back of his head to twist round and up sharply. The snap was audible and clean as John released his hold and let the body slump to the ground. The square was silent except for the sounds of the rain. D and Rabbit emerged from different alleys with their rifles slung over their shoulders. They approached John as he stared down at the body at his feet. Reese still had a firm grip on Sherlock as the detective stared at his lover.

“Reese, take Sherlock back to the safe house and get him cleaned up. Give him no narcotics. D, go with them. Rabbit and I’ll take care of the body,” John said calmly without looking at any of the men.

“John! Wait!” Sherlock started but looked at Reese when the man tightened his grip.

“Give him some time. He was Bricks’ mentor when he joined the team. He was the one that killed Bricks’ brother. Jekyll has a lot to work through before he can get to you,” Reese said quietly and they watched as Rabbit handed his rifle to D and moved to help John pick up the body.

Reese released his hold on Sherlock but still kept a hand on his elbow. D moved to Sherlock’s other side and grabbed the other elbow. They shuffled him along as Rabbit and John went another direction with the body hanging between them. Sherlock could only wonder how long it would be until he got to see John again.

 

(!)(!)(!)

 

John groaned and squinted at the dawn light at Rabbit and he slowly walked up to the door leading to the apartment. Stepping through the archway, he secured the large door behind him and followed Rabbit up the stairs. As they neared the other door, he could hear loud voices snapping at each other coming from the flat. Glancing at Rabbit, they both pulled their handguns and slowly opened the door. Once understanding the words, John sighed and motioned for Rabbit to relax.

“I need to clean and bandage your wounds. Jekyll won’t be happy if you’re still bleeding by the time he gets back.”

“Jekyll can come and bandage the wounds himself. He’s my bloody doctor anyway. He and I need to have a few words.”

John groaned again and slipped his gun back into his waistband as he entered the apartment. D was sitting at the table cleaning the rifles and Reese was standing in front of Sherlock with a first aid kit under his arm. At the sound of the door slamming shut, all three men turned and looked at the new arrivals. Coming into the apartment, John was exhausted and drained. Now, seeing the state Sherlock was in refusing first aid brought on a wave of fury. Fury at the situation and at the consulting detective for being so stubborn; fury at the world and the choices John was forced to make.

John strode forward and snatched the first aid kit from Reese.

“You, bedroom and don’t say a word. The rest of you, make yourself scarce. We leave in forty-eight hours,” John snapped, pointing first to Sherlock then to rest of the men in the room.

Sherlock watched, impressed as the other three men disappeared in under two minutes. John turned and glared at Sherlock before pointing towards a doorway. The detective turned and limped towards the open bedroom door with as much dignity as he could muster given the state of his clothing. D had gone to Sherlock’s hotel and gathered his personal items before checking the detective out of his hotel. When he arrived, Sherlock and Reese were still arguing about letting Reese look at Sherlock’s injuries. Sherlock had even refused to change out of his soaked clothing until speaking with John.

Sherlock stood in the small bedroom as John set the first aid kit on the bureau and started to pull out supplies. John picked up a stack of antiseptic wipes and pushed at Sherlock.

“Sit.”

The younger man sat on the edge of the bed and stared up at John as the doctor stood between his spread knees. Despite his rough words, John was gentle as he tilted Sherlock’s face up and brushed back the damp hair. He gently dabbed at the gash at Sherlock’s temple. Sherlock felt the moist heat coming off John’s body and he breathed in the overwhelming scent of rain and John’s body. He lifted his hands and gently gripped the back of John’s thighs to feel a shudder race through John’s body.

“John, I-”

“I am so angry with you, Sherlock. I told you to stay in London. I asked you to stay there and you ignored me. Went against my wishes,” John muttered and dabbed a bit more forcefully against the gash.

Sherlock winced at the sudden pain and felt his own anger flare up.

“Well if you had just included me on where you were going and why, then maybe I would have heeded your request and stayed in London. If only you had confided in me.”

“When have you ever heeded any of my requests? You’re the great Sherlock Holmes, you think you know better than everyone else about what to do. I’m a former mercenary, Sherlock. Why would you want to waste your time on me?” John snapped and stepped away from Sherlock to throw away the wipes.

Sherlock surged to his feet. “Because I love you and bloody well can’t imagine my life without you. You put up with my experiments, you calm my racing mind, you understand how I work; you love me for me. I can’t-I can’t be without you. I don’t even want to try.”

“Sherlock, I’ve done horrible things. What you read in those files is only part of it. I’m not a good person,” John muttered and dropped his gaze.

Sherlock stepped into John’s personal space and grabbed John’s face to make him look at him. “I don’t care about that, John. I only care about the now and the future with you. You’re a former mercenary. I’m a former drug addict. You killed bad people who hurt innocents. I’ve severely injured CIA operatives for harming our land lady. We’ve both lied. Neither of us are good people.”

John chuckled at that and reached up to press his hands against Sherlock’s. He couldn’t believe that Sherlock was here and still loved him. Maybe they could make this work.

“I don’t know how you can forgive me for everything I’ve done.”

Sherlock ducked his and removed one of his hands to kiss at John’s neck.

“For you, John, I can forgive anything and everything as long as you continue to love me.”

John groaned and tipped his head back as Sherlock continued to nibble at his neck and throat. “Tell me, Sherlock.”

Sherlock hesitated at what John was requesting but then the conversation replayed in his mind. He straightened and looked John in the eyes.

“I forgive you, John. Everything you’ve done in your past. I forgive you.”

John grabbed at Sherlock damp shirt and pulled him against him as they backed against the wall. John grunted when his sore back hit the wall but that didn’t stop him from pulling Sherlock tightly against him. Sherlock’s hands ran down his sides and then moved to his front to start unbuttoning his shirt. John didn’t hesitate and grabbed Sherlock’s shirt and jerked in opposite directions to tear the fabric. He felt Sherlock smile against his lips as the detective shook his arms loose from the fabric before continuing on John’s shirt. John’s fingers dug into the pale, clammy flesh as Sherlock started kissing down John’s chest.

“Tell me again,” he murmured and looked down as Sherlock’s eyes rolled up to look at John.

“I forgive you,” Sherlock whispered and kissed his way to one of John’s nipples before drawing it into his mouth.

John gasped and arched against Sherlock’s body. The shirt was peeled from his back and arms to fall to the floor with a wet plop. Sherlock identified the bruises on John’s torso but quickly catalogued them as non life threatening. John wrapped his hands around Sherlock’s neck as the genius’ hands started to release John’s belt. Sherlock maneuvered them around and pushed John onto the bed. He quickly stripped out of his remaining clothes and John did the same. Sherlock crawled up John’s body, kissing along the way before capturing John’s lips. They ground their cocks together and swallowed each other’s moans as John thrust his hips against Sherlock’s.

“Do you have any lube?” Sherlock groaned and pulled back while squeezing his eyes shut to control himself.

“No and I don’t care,” John muttered and grabbed Sherlock’s hand.

He quickly suckled on two of Sherlock’s long fingers and curled his tongue around the sensitive digits as Sherlock dropped his head and bit along John’s collar bone. Once John released his fingers, Sherlock quickly slipped one long finger into John and felt the heat of his lover. Easing his finger in and out, Sherlock listened to John’s breathy moans as the older man grabbed at his shoulders. Easing in the second finger, Sherlock brushed against John’s prostate and felt the full body shudder. John’s eyelids were fluttering wildly as Sherlock withdrew his fingers. He spread the pre ejaculate around his cock and braced himself over John’s quivering body.

“Look at me,” he whispered and saw John’s eyelids snap open.

“I forgive you,” he whispered and eased his hips forward into John’s welcoming body.

John cried out at the sensations and threw his head back. Feeling Sherlock’s cock slide into him was painful from the lack of preparation but it was a welcoming burn and stretch. Seeing Sherlock on his knees beside Bricks with a gun pointed at his head was more painful. Thinking he would never experience this again was excruciating. He grabbed the back of Sherlock’s head and pulled him down for a bruising kiss. Sherlock increased the pace and one long thrust into John had him seeing stars. John’s legs were wrapped tightly around Sherlock and the flexing thigh muscles were urging him harder and deeper. Cursing quietly, Sherlock grabbed one of John’s legs and lifted it over his shoulder to thrust deeper. Both men gasped at the new sensation and Sherlock lost all control. He started a punishing pace and heard John cursing under him but urging him on. One of John’s hands was holding onto Sherlock’s neck where the blood was still tacky from his head wound. John’s other hand was digging into Sherlock’s back to form little red crescents from his nails. John’s torso was mottled black and blue from his fight with Bricks but that didn’t stop him. They both enjoyed the pain.

Sherlock looked down at John and was enthralled by the sight. John’s head was thrown back and his neck was corded in tension as he matched Sherlock’s thrusts. His painfully hard cock was leaking copious amounts of pre ejaculate which was smearing on both men. His eyes were clenched shut and he was panting between the moans falling from his lips. Sherlock slowed his thrusts and watched as those eyelids fluttered before slowly opening to look at the man above him.

“I forgive you,” he murmured and thrust again, sliding hard against the prostate.

John gasped and dropped his hand from Sherlock’s back to his own cock. Frantically stroking, John’s whole body froze before he started coming. Sherlock watched, amazed, as John thrashed under him and swore before shakily moaning. Feeling his own orgasm boil up suddenly, Sherlock pounded hard into John’s body three more times before clenching his teeth at the mind numbing orgasm. His hips rocked one last time into John’s body as he softly groaned before dropping his head against John’s chest. He could feel John’s muscles fluttering against his softening cock and he shifted to ease out. His heart froze for a moment upon seeing blood on the sheets but quickly realized it came from the small wounds on his thigh from the stone shrapnel. Blood was smeared along the back of John’s thighs from Sherlock. John’s legs slid down Sherlock’s sides before his feet came to rest on the mattress. Sherlock shifted to the side and collapsed on the bed beside John. Both of them were still trying to get their breath back.

“We got blood on the sheets,” Sherlock commented dryly.

“Blood?”

John lifted his head to look over at Sherlock and then down at the sheets. Sherlock motioned towards his thigh and the small wounds and John chuffed softly.

“Yeah, we’re both a bit bloody and bruised,” he commented and let his head drop back to the mattress.

Sherlock braced his upper body up on an elbow and leaned over to kiss John. “I mean it. I forgive you. For everything.”

John smiled and leaned up to kiss him back. “Thank you, Sherlock. For forgiving me. For giving me that. You didn’t have to but you did. I love you.”

“Now, are you going to bandage your lover up or did you just use me for my body?”

John’s laughter echoed across the apartment and down to the sunny street. The storm was over and all was forgiven.

 


	6. Family

One loyal friend is worth ten thousand relatives.-Euripides

 

Molly Hooper took a deep breath and released it before doing it again. Rain pounded against the window to her left and she flinched when a loud boom of thunder shook the building. Her leg was bouncing madly and she was trying to resist the urge to chew on a nail. She didn’t handle stress well. This was why she wasn’t a physician. She couldn’t handle the stress of dealing with living people and possibly doing something wrong. She was better with the dead.

She glanced at the man sitting next to her and waited for his diagnoses. He lowered the chest piece and let it dangle before removing the earpieces.

“Molly, you are perfectly fine. Yes, your blood pressure is a little elevated but it’s still within the normal parameters. Especially for your wedding day.”

Molly Hooper was marrying Gregory Lestrade today. And Molly was sure she was about to have a heart attack. Thirty-two years old and she was about to have a heart attack.

“Are you sure, John? I’m feeling lightheaded and afflicted with nausea. Something is very wrong,” Molly said and started biting on a nail but stopped herself and clenched her hands together.

John smiled and packed away his stethoscope. “No, Molly, you’re just nervous. That’s natural on your wedding day.”

Molly snorted and her knee started bouncing again in agitation. John sighed and searched through his coat pockets. Finding what he wanted he reached out to press on her knee.

“Molly, I want you to go and sit in the corner. Get comfortable and listen to this until the playlist stops. Keep your eyes closed and just breath. Empty your mind and keep it blank. It will help you calm down,” John said while he plugged in the earphones to his ipod and found the playlist he wanted.

He watched as Molly did as he asked and he quickly muted his mobile. He grabbed Molly’s mobile and left the small room to stand guard at the door. It was Molly’s wedding day and the one thing no one wanted to happen on a wedding day was happening. It was raining cats and dogs outside. Like monsoon raining. John stood guard at the door and fielded phone calls from Molly’s mobile and his own. He answered questions from family members and officiants. He had done the same thing when Harry was married; acting as the first line of defence to keep her calm and collected on her big day.

John and Sherlock were helping out; John willingly and Sherlock unwillingly. John had basically volunteered Sherlock’s help and the detective threw a sulk before grudgingly agreeing. Their suits were hanging in the groom’s prep room and would change before the actual wedding.

Molly’s mobile rang dingled in his hand just as he was finishing up calming Lestrade down on his own mobile. Sherlock was supposed to be keeping Lestrade calm but John now realized how stupid that plan was. Sherlock sometimes had the attention span of a two year old and that was being generous. Lestrade had made some comment about Sherlock catching scent of a perfume he didn’t have logged in his mental palace and had gone tracking after it. He’ll have a word with the consulting detective later about everything have a time and place.

“Yes, hello, Molly Hooper’s mobile,” John answered as he scanned through his text messages.

“Molly dear?”

“No, sorry, this is her friend, John. She’s relaxing right now. Can I help you with something?” John asked and put his mobile away.

John heard someone talking in the background before the person on the phone answered back before coming back to the mobile.

“This is Patrick, her uncle, we’re trying to get out of Paris but this storm has everything cancelled. Please tell Molly that we’re trying but we don’t know if we’ll make it in time for the wedding.”

“I’m sorry to hear that. I’ll pass the message along to her. Keep us posted if you can make it,” John replied and saw Sherlock turn the nearby corner.

John terminated the call as Patrick started talking to his wife. Sherlock raised his eyebrows as he neared John, seeing the grimace.

“Someone can’t come because of the weather. Someone Molly is close to,” Sherlock said and John nodded before sighing.

“Her uncle. I’ve heard her talk about him before. He was the one that urged her to go to medical school. He became a surrogate father after her Dad passed away from cancer,” John replied and glanced over his shoulder at the door behind him.

“And her uncle is the one-”

“Walking her down the aisle. Yeah, there’s that too,” John finished and saw the concern flash across Sherlock’s face.

“What airport are they at?” Sherlock replied and pulled out his Blackberry.

“Charles de Gaulle.” John slipped Molly’s mobile into his pocket and turned to open the door. “I better tell her and then tell the officiant of the change of plans.”

John took a deep breath and pushed open the door. Molly was still seated in the corner and she looked much calmer. John regretted having to break the calm. Knocking on the nearby table, he saw Molly’s eyes open and she smiled. She pulled out the earbuds and stood before stretching.

“I feel much better, John. Thanks,” she replied and handed John his ipod back with a smile.

“Molly, there’s something I have to tell you and you’re not going to like it,” John said slowly and saw Molly’s face drop in anticipation.

“What is it?”

“I heard from-”

“John!”

John flinched and turned to look at Sherlock who had suddenly swung this upper body around the corner of the doorway. Sherlock’s eyes had a manic gleam that John had quickly started to equate to dangerous.

“Could I have a word before you talk with Molly?”

John raised an eyebrow and slowly nodded. He walked to the doorway and Sherlock quickly dipped his head to brush his lips against John’s ear.

“Wait on telling Molly. I may create a miracle.”

John’s head popped up in surprise and looked at Sherlock’s grin. Realization dawned on John and he slowly nodded. He reached up and tugged Sherlock’s head down again to reach his ear.

“Alright. But if it doesn’t work then you can tell her and deal with the tears.”

Sherlock grimaced before disappearing again around the corner. John turned back to Molly and smiled.

“As I was saying. I heard that the weather is supposed to stay like this for the rest of the day. Hope you don’t mind a wet wedding,” John lied and saw Molly relax for a moment.

“Oh, that’s all. I was worried you were about to say my Uncle Pat and his wife couldn’t get here because of the storm. I think I might have cried if you said that,” she replied before turning around as the few bridesmaid came in.

“Yeah, good thing I didn’t say that,” John muttered and tossed Molly’s mobile to the maid of honor before hurrying out of the room.

It wasn’t that hard to find Sherlock. He was pacing the front room of the church, talking on his mobile in rapid fire French. His gaze shot up to John before dropping back to the carpet and he continued to pace. John pushed aside the heavy Belstaff and sat on the nearby bench to watch his lover. Sherlock was in his customary two-piece black suit with a white silk shirt underneath. While Sherlock paced, John admired the lines of the young man’s suit. He raised an eyebrow in amusement and occasionally licked his lips thinking about what was under those clothes. John caught Mycroft’s name during the conversation and could only imagine who he could be speaking with if not his brother. John stopped his mind from wandering into the gutter in the naughty territory as Sherlock completed his phone call. He immediately dialed again and when the call connected he started in on the French again. John scowled slightly. Sherlock knew John’s French wasn’t the best. He could understand well enough if the person speaks slowly but Sherlock was speaking with the speed of lifetime fluency. Sherlock continued to pace and was running his free hand through his curls, mussing them up.

Sherlock terminated that call and strode over to where John was sitting. He slid his hands along John’s jaw and kissed him deeply. John sighed and reached up to grab Sherlock’s elbows as the younger man towered over him. Sherlock bent one leg and rested his knee alongside John’s thigh on the bench to get get closer. He withdrew and sighed before kissing him one last time before straightening.

“I have to run. I’ll be back in time for the wedding. I love you.”

John straightened in surprise. “You’re what?”

Sherlock smirked and grabbed the Belstaff before he backed towards the door. “Keep your mobile on you. I’ll be back in time for the wedding. Trust me.”

John stared after him as Sherlock spun and pushed through the door and into the rain. Trust him? Trust Sherlock Holmes with a wedding day surprise. The same man that thought necrotized fingers were a great present? John sighed and let his head drop. At least the bride and groom knew how Sherlock was and wouldn’t be too put out. Hopefully, John mused and stood to hunt down Lestrade. Maybe the detective inspector had some alcohol on him. John could only imagine what Sherlock was working on.

 

(!)(!)(!)

 

Molly ran her hands down the front of her wedding gown again. Everything was almost ready and it was almost time. But she couldn’t find her Uncle. John had volunteered to go looking for him but that had been twenty minutes ago. They were standing in the entrance hall, waiting for the processional to start. She didn’t have a backup if Uncle Pat couldn’t walk her down the aisle. Maybe she could ask John, or she could walk down the aisle on her own. She didn’t want to do that but what could she do.

Hearing a small commotion to her left, she turned and saw her Uncle Pat come stumbling through the doors being herded by Molly’s mum. Molly smiled and reached out to hug the elderly man.

“Uncle Pat, I’m so happy to see you made it. Thank you so much for coming,” Molly said and felt herself get choked up a bit.

“Ah, Molly, dear. It’s good to see you too. We wouldn’t have made it if not for your friend.”

Molly pulled back in confusion. Friend? What friend? Pat saw her confusion and started to speak.

“All the flights out of Paris were cancelled because of the storm. We were about to pack up when a military escort appeared. They drove us to Creil Air Base and we caught a military transport to London. When we landed at RAF Northolt, your friend was waiting for us with a towncar. Amazing young man. He drove us out here and broke a few speed limits, let me tell you that,” he said and Molly shook her head.

“But Uncle Pat, I knew nothing of this. I didn’t know the flights were even cancelled. What friend are you talking about?”

Pat turned and scanned the faces of the people in the entrance hall. “Ah,” he cried and pointed through the crowd.

“That young man there. Sharp as a tack, that one.”

Molly turned and saw who Pat was pointing at. Sherlock was down the hallway where it was a bit more quiet. John was already dressed in his morning suit and he was in the process of helping Sherlock with his. Sherlock was pulling on his morning suit jacket as John was buttoning up the shirt underneath. Sherlock’s hair was dripping wet from the storm outside and he was quietly talking to John as the doctor worked on the buttons. Sherlock reached up and ruffled his fingers through his hair, splattering water all over the hallway and John. John laughed and moved to fix Sherlock’s tie as Sherlock tucked the shirt into his trousers. Sherlock tilted his head back slightly as John ran his fingers around the collar to ensure the rest of the tie was hidden under the collar. Sherlock’s smile was soft and easy going as he looked down at John’s head. Molly’s heart tightened as she saw how happy Sherlock was. The emotions that he kept hidden from everyone else but John. He had been alone for so long and for Molly to see that sparkle in Sherlock’s eyes, she thanked whatever deities were listening for bringing John Watson to Sherlock.

John stepped closer to Sherlock and rocked up on his toes to quickly kiss the taller man. Sherlock ducked his head and kissed John back before straightening. He was laughing softly as he turned his head to look up the hallway. Molly’s gaze locked with his and his face immediately locked down on the emotions that were there a moment earlier. His gaze flitted between Pat and Molly before he stared at Molly.

She mouthed ‘Thank you’ to the consulting detective with a bright smile. She was reward with a small smile. It wasn’t near the strength of a John smile but for Molly, it was enough. He dipped his head and tilted it as music started to play. Molly looked at the large double doors that her bridesmaids had gone through and looked back to Sherlock. The hallway was empty. Only a puddle of water remained.

Two hours later, the reception was in full swing and Molly had her head buried in Greg’s chest laughing. Despite the rain, it was a memorable day. Greg made her cry during the vows. She made Greg blush. Everyone was happy. Spying a mop of dark curly hair, she stepped back from Greg and craned her neck to look. Sherlock and John were dancing nearby and Molly looked at the band just as a slow song started up. Speaking quickly to Greg, Molly turned and approached the other couple. She tapped John on the shoulder and smiled when he turned to her.

“May I cut in Dr. Watson?”

John laughed and Sherlock reddened slightly but John bowed out gracefully as Molly took his place. Sherlock’s left arm wrapped around her slim waist and with his right he gently grasped her hand. She fell into step as Sherlock moved them around the dance floor.

“Thank you, Sherlock, for getting my Uncle here. I don’t know how you did it, but thank you,” Molly said softly, looking up at the consulting detective.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about, Molly. I didn’t do anything,” he replied but Molly saw the slight twitch at the corner of his lips.

Molly ran her right hand down the lapel of Sherlock’s jacket and patted his chest softly. She could feel his heart thrumming softly through the cloths and against her palm. A heart a lot of people said Sherlock Holmes didn’t possess. But Molly Hooper-Lestrade knew better.

“Well, if you didn’t do anything. Then this is not me thanking you for saving my wedding day. You are a good man, Sherlock Holmes. John is very lucky to have you,” she said and stretched to gently kiss Sherlock’s cheek.

When she looked back at his face, there was a small blush there and he ducked his head slightly in embarrassment. She softly giggled and wrapped her arms around him to hug the lanky genius. She felt the toned arms wrap around her and squeeze tightly.

“Thank you, Sherlock.”

“You’re welcome, Mrs. Hooper-Lestrade. You’re very welcome.”

 


	7. Ricochet

“Oh God, Oh God! that it were possible

To undo things done; to call back yesterday!

That time could turn up her swift and sandy glass,

To untell days, and to redeem these hours.”

~Thomas Heywood

 

Sherlock fired another round at the wall and glanced over to see where it hit. Not exactly where he planned but close enough. He heard a few footsteps above him, running to the top of the stairs.

“Sherlock! Stop shooting the walls! Mrs. Hudson is going to add it onto the rent and we can’t afford it after your failed experiment last month with the acid,” John yelled down the stairs and Sherlock rolled his eyes.

“I’m bored, John! I need something to do.”

“Go for a walk and deduce people in the park. Walk into a random restaurant, hotel or store and ask people if they need help with something. Do something! But stop shooting the wall!” John snapped and turned to go back into the spare room.

Sherlock had been without any cases for about a week. The website was providing nothing. Lestrade had nothing. Molly had nothing. Mycroft had offered a case but Sherlock had scoffed and rolled his eyes. Now he was sprawled on his chair, dressed in pajama pants, tee shirt, his robe and firing random shots into the wall and trying to predict how accurate the projectiles would land without looking where he was firing. He’d been scoring about 82% on predicting where it’ll hit. He hoped to reach about 90% soon. If he didn’t then he’d have to go looking for more bullets. John had gotten tired of the snappiness and trying to distract Sherlock and had disappeared into the spare bedroom to read or surf the Internet or something. Sherlock fired once again and glanced over at the wall. He heard footsteps and yelling again and knew John was coming downstairs and would definitely take away the gun now. Only two bullets left; better make them count. Sherlock raised his arm and fired the final two shots. The first one landed like normal in the sheetrock like normal. The second made a sharp clang noise and ricocheted. Sherlock slid from his chair and covered his head as thuds and bangs echoed around the flat. Slowly uncovering his head, Sherlock looked up at the wall. There were three new holes; the first bullet claimed one hole but the second bullet claimed two holes. A ricochet? A possible new experiment started to form in his mind. Evaluating the ricochet patterns on different types of metals. It would be useful knowledge. His mind started listing off the different types of metal that he could use in the experiment. Would the type of bullet affect the ricochet pattern? Distance from firing point. The possibilities started racing through his mind.

“John! I got an idea for an experiment. I might need Lestrade’s help with it. Or Mycroft maybe. Depends on who can get me access to a shooting range uninterrupted for a few hours,” Sherlock called and grabbed a piece of paper to start making notes about how to design the experiment.

Sherlock scribbled a few notes before his hand stopped and he slowly became aware of how quiet the flat was. Hadn’t John been coming down the stairs to make tea or yell at Sherlock before he fired at the wall again. And the bullet had ricocheted. Sherlock’s eyes flickered towards the doorway to the landing as he slowly straightened. An unpleasant feeling was building in his gut and chest. He licked his suddenly dry lips and dropped the pen to the desk.

“John?”

There was no answering reply as Sherlock slowly walked to the partially closed door. His eyes immediately focused on the ricocheted bullet hole just at chest height and his heart seized in horror.

“John?” he asked, ignoring the faint tremble in his voice.

His gaze slid down the gap between the door and door frame as he reached out. When his gaze locked on the pair of legs sprawled on the landing, all his calm broke.

“John!” he yelled and wrenched the door open to stumble to his lover’s side.

John lay crumbled at the bottom of the stairs and a puddle of blood was slowly growing beneath him. On the left side of his chest was a slowly growing stain of red on his jumper. The puddle was coming from somewhere else. Sherlock ripped off his robe and pressed it against the entry wound with one hand while searching for a pulse. He found one; fast and thready. The wound was too close to his heart, Sherlock realized suddenly. Swearing to himself, he slid a hand under John’s body and found the exit wound. The entry wound was left chest, just under his pectoral muscle; exit wound was slightly higher. The bullet took him at an angle. Sherlock wrapped the robe around John’s body and pressed it against the exit wound. He darted back into the sitting room and grabbed his mobile from the mantle and dialed emergency services before cradling it between his head and shoulder.

“John! John! Can you hear me?” he yelled and pressed a hand against the entry and exit wound.

The only reply he got was a soft groan and a flutter of John’s eyelashes. Sherlock snapped out the address over the phone and listed the details they asked for. Sherlock’s mind was racing in circles as he stared down at his lover. His lover shot by Sherlock’s own hand. Tears flowed down his face as he pleaded with John to wake up; to acknowledge him. The brief pounding on the door downstairs alerted Sherlock to the paramedics arrival but he wasn’t going to ease on the pressure trying to keep John’s blood in his body where it belonged. He screamed at them to break down the door; nothing mattered if they couldn’t help John. Two paramedics pushed him aside and descended on John. Sherlock stared at John’s slack face as they slipped on an oxygen mask and started packing the wound with gauze. Numbers and readings were being issued back and forth as needles were inserted for IVs. Urgency took over as the oxygen mask was ripped away and they started to thread an endo tube down John’s throat. ‘Left lung collapsing’, was whispered followed with, ‘Bullet went through the lung. Too much blood, must have nicked the heart or an artery. Bleeding out. Need emergency surgery.’ Sherlock was only vaguely aware of someone talking to him and asking him questions. He replied automatically while listening to the paramedics. A backboard appeared as they prepared John for transport. It felt like a dream, a nightmare cruelly constructed from Sherlock’s genius mind from his previous experiences. The nightmare that the one person that he finally opened himself up to was leaving. Walking away while he begged them to stay. Or leaving because Sherlock himself pushed them away.

Handcuffs clicked around his wrists.

Sherlock’s head snapped around to stare at...Dimmock? Where was Lestrade? Why was Dimmock here? Why were his wrists in cuffs? Dimmock stared sadly at him.

“You just admitted you shot him, Sherlock. You shot John. Accidently you say, but you still shot him. I have to take you to the station.”

“No, I have to go with John. I can’t leave him alone. I need to go with him.”

“You can’t, Sherlock. After we finish at the station you can see him at hospital,” Dimmock said softly, hoping Sherlock would see reason.

John’s life was on the line; reason was not a valid concept to Sherlock. “No! John! I have to go with him! John!”

Dimmock quickly threaded his arms through Sherlock’s cuffed arms as the consulting detective struggled to follow his lover. Dimmock kept them kneeling on the floor and held Sherlock back as the paramedics started to carry John down the stairs. Sherlock yelled himself hoarse until the sounds from the ambulance faded away down the street. He was left panting in Dimmock’s grip and staring at the pool of blood at the bottom of the stairs. John’s blood; all of it. His mind retreated in on itself and ignored all outside stimuli.

John had tried to convince Sherlock to come to bed that morning and fool around. Sherlock had just snapped at him in his frustration of not having a case. Sherlock’s mind snapped back to their last time together. It had been a week ago when they had finished an exciting case. They had made love that morning after closing the case the night before. It was slow and enjoyable. No rush for a case or work. No rush to get out of bed. They took the time to enjoy each other’s body. Now, he realized how much John had tried to get Sherlock’s attention on something for the past week. Tried to coax him out of the flat. Coax him into discussions. Left notes about lectures at nearby universities. Anything to get Sherlock out of his funk. And all Sherlock did was ridicule or insult.

Sherlock wasn’t aware of Dimmock leading him to the panda car and helping him into the back seat. He wasn’t aware of the shocked faces that he passed on the way to the holding cells. He wasn’t aware of the cold tile floor under his barefeet. He wasn’t aware of his body occasionally shivering in the cool holding cell dressed in only pajama pants and a tee shirt. He wasn’t aware of the four hours he spent sitting in that cell. He wasn’t aware of the ache in his shoulders and arms from his cuffed hands.

He was only aware of the probability of death from John’s wound. He was aware of his blood stained hands; stained with John’s blood. He was aware of the blood soaked shirt and bloody knees from kneeling in John’s blood. His mind listed the possible complications and with each one his heart tightened even further. He remembered kissing along John’s golden skin; in his mind the skin turned grey and cold under his lips. The warm, sparkling eyes and now they were empty; empty of John. His heart started racing and he began gasping for breath. He killed John. There was no other deduction. No other conclusions to draw. His flat mate was dead; his lover was dead. John was dead. Sherlock had killed John.

*slap*

Sherlock’s head snapped to the side as pain exploded on his left cheek and his eyes popped open. Opening his mouth, Sherlock stretched his jaw to try and ease the sting while turning to look back at who may have slapped him. Mycroft stood in front of him and his umbrella was tapping impatiently on the tile floor. Lestrade stood behind him in the doorway looking like he dressed in a hurry. One look at Mycroft told Sherlock that his older brother was furious; but furious at what?

“Mycroft?”

“How could you be so idiotic, Sherlock? I’ve never known you to be so baseline stupid. Of course a bullet will hit something or someone if you fire it. The luck that nothing bad happened until now is a mystery. You stupid boy,” Mycroft snarled before snapping his mouth shut to reign in his temper.

Sherlock took the verbal abuse silently once dropping his gaze back to the floor. He didn’t need Mcroft to tell him what he already knew. He didn’t care anymore. John was dead; nothing mattered. His only care was getting out long enough to find a dealer and make it all go away. Permanently; permanently make it go away. Mycroft sighed and accepted the bag Lestrade held out silently.

“Here are some clothes. Get cleaned up and dressed,” he said softly and set the bag on the bench next to Sherlock.

Lestrade came forward and moved to uncuff Sherlock. Lestrade hesitated for a moment upon seeing blood staining Sherlock’s hands but he ignored it.

“How’s John?” Sherlock asked softly, not sure if he wanted confirmation.

Both men hesitated and glanced at each other before Lestrade spoke. “We’re not sure.”

Sherlock raised an eyebrow in confusion. How could they not be sure? Lestrade stepped back with the handcuffs and watched as Sherlock stiffly moved his arms around to his front.

“There was a large eleven car pileup on the motorway. Twenty-three people or so were rushed to various hospitals. John...has been lost in the confusion,” Mycroft admitted and Sherlock surged to his feet.

“What?”

“Anthea is searching all the hospitals for a man of John’s description and injuries. We will find him, Sherlock, but it’ll take time,” Mycroft said while holding a hand out to stop Sherlock from charging from the room.

“We don’t have time, Mycroft! John could be dying with no one there with him. He could already be dead and his body pushed aside like a lump of trash.”

Just as the words left his mouth they came back around and pierced Sherlock’s chest. It was the first time he had spoken them out loud and he realized how much the words hurt now that he had verbalized them. Images flooded his brain and for once he cursed his powerful imagination for showing him the scenes he just described. A choked whimper slipped past his lips and his knees wobbled unsteadily. Mycroft stepped forward and wrapped an arm around Sherlock as the detective started to collapse. Sherlock wrapped his arms around Mycroft and held him tightly, taking the comfort that was offered.

“What if he is dead, My? What do I do?” Sherlock whispered into Mycroft’s shoulder and felt Mycroft’s arm tighten slightly.

“There’s no point in considering that until we know for certain. Dr. Watson is strong and fit and more stubborn than you at times. Do not make deductions without having all the facts. Control your mind, ‘Lock, do not let it control you,” Mycroft replied softly against Sherlock’s ear.

“Now get dressed before you catch something. Greg and I are going to try and get you released. Once I hear anything from Anthea about John, I will let you know.”

Sherlock nodded and straightened from Mycroft’s arms. The cell door clanged shut behind the two men as Sherlock opened the bag and tried to repress the flinch at the noise. Thankfully, Dimmock had put him in an isolation cell so at least he didn’t have to deal with idiot criminals; most of who, Sherlock probably put in here himself. He changed quickly and wiped his hands clean with the wet wipes stuffed in the bag. He didn’t look at the blood soaked clothing and vowed to throw them away or burn them at the first chance he got. He left his coat draped over the bench and slipped his keys, wallet and phone into his pockets. The familiar custom tailored suit calmed his mind slightly as he started to walk around the cell. He started listing the elements and their weights and what group they belonged in; anything to keep his mind busy. He evaluated his emotionally reactions up to this point and wondered if this was how John felt after Sherlock’s jump. Was it the same or not? Sherlock decided it was not the same. Sherlock had it worse. John, at the time, believed Sherlock to be dead and had no evidence to suggest otherwise. Sherlock didn’t know if John was dead or not. He quickly realized that hope was painful; the hope that maybe John was still alive but reality would intrude and provide statistics that hinted that John was dead. His emotions swung back and forth. Sherlock sat again on the bench and leaned forward to press the heels of his hands into his eye sockets. Had to control his mind. Stop it from running rampant.

“Sherlock.”

Sherlock’s head snapped up in surprise to find Mycroft standing in the doorway to the cell again. He hadn’t heard his brother approach or open the door. His mind was really in disarray.

“We’ve adamantly stated that is was an negligent discharge of a firearm. Given your history of helping out the NSY they will overlook the charges. However, if Dr. Watson should die then you will be brought up on manslaughter charges. I cannot change that.”

Sherlock slowly nodded as Mycroft motioned for him to follow. Sherlock didn’t need to tell Mycroft what was running through his mind. If John did die then the court system wouldn’t have to worry about bringing charges to Sherlock. All Sherlock would need would be an hour and enough cocaine, morphine mixture to stop his heart. Easily done.

Sherlock grabbed his coat and slipped it on as he followed Mycroft through the back halls of the NSY. He shoved the bag with his blood soaked cloths into the first trash receptacle he reached and didn’t look back. He kept his gaze turned down and followed the back of Mycroft’s heels as they left NSY by the back hallways. A storm was coming, Sherlock mused when they stepped outside. He breathed in the air and smelled rain on the wind. John loved the moment before a storm. When he could smell the rain and feel the electricity in the air. John had more appreciation of mother earth and her power.

Mycroft’s phone rang and both Holmes stopped in their tracks. Mycroft pulled his phone out and glanced at the screen before sliding a thumb across the screen and bringing it up to his ear.

“Yes, Anthea.”

Mycroft looked at Sherlock and held his gaze as he listened to his assistant. Sherlock tried to read his brother’s face but couldn’t. They were brothers, they knew how to read each other and how to keep a blank face. Mycroft was the better of the two, Sherlock grimly acknowledged. He wrapped his coat tighter around his body; maybe he could protect himself, protect himself from the words that were about to shatter his world. Mycroft made noises of acknowledgement before hanging up the phone. He opened the door to the back seat of the sedan and motioned for Sherlock to get in. Sherlock stood locked in place while he stared at his brother.

“My...please. Tell me,” Sherlock whispered and felt impossible tears sting his eyes.

“He’s alive, for now. Get in and I’ll tell you on the way.”

Sherlock almost fell into the car in relief, questions bubbling up and threatening to choke him. Mycroft told the driver the name of the hospital and told him to hurry. He sat back and looked over at Sherlock. His little brother had leaned back against the back of the seat with his hands covering his face and his chest was surging in time with his heavy breathing.

“Anthea would have called sooner but she’s been dealing with the surgery team. Dr. Watson is still in surgery and they have been instructed to do everything in their power to save him. They have him on a cardiopulmonary bypass machine and are cooling down his body while working on repairing the damage to the lung and heart.”

“Why are they cooling his body?” Sherlock asked from behind his hands.

“Cooled blood decreases the body’s demand for oxygen. Less demand for oxygen means less stress on the lung and the heart. We’ll find out more once we speak with the doctors,” Mycroft replied quietly and stared out the window at the passing city.

Neither brother spoke again until they reached the hospital and found Anthea in the surgery waiting room. She looked up from her Blackberry and nodded in greeting to her boss and Sherlock.

“The nurse just told me that Dr. Watson has survived surgery. He’ll be on his way to recovery shortly and the doctor will be here shortly to update us on the surgery and his chances.” Anthea held up a hand to Sherlock as he opened his mouth to speak. “Yes, he is being moved to a private room which you will have access to. You will be allowed to remain as long as you do not disturb the patient or hinder the medical staff from doing their job.”

Sherlock nodded in appreciation and looked up at an approaching doctor in scrubs.

“John Watson?”

“Yes. How is he?”

“Are you family?”

“No, but I’m Sherlock Holmes, I’m his emergency contact.”

The doctor glanced over the paperwork on his clipboard and nodded.

“I’m Dr. Sweeney and I’ll be overseeing Dr. Watson’s care. Dr. Watson is in critical condition but stable. He crashed once in the ambulance and once on the table. The bullet nicked the aorta and he lost a lot of blood before getting here. We immediately took him into surgery to repair the damage. We put him on a cardiopulmonary bypass machine while we worked to repair the damage to his heart and left lung. The lungs are a very forgiving organ in some instances and we were able to sew the holes closed. The nick in his heart wall was difficult to repair but we’re hopeful we fixed it. Thankfully, we did not have to crack his chest to get at his heart; we managed to do the work through the initial trauma location. He’s been moved to a private room and we’re slowly starting to warm up his core temperature from surgery; we’ll keep his body temperature lower than normal to ease the demand on his lungs. He’s on full ventilator support and he’ll be kept under sedation and on a paralytic for several days.

“After three days; if there are no complications; we’ll take an MRI and see how his lungs and heart look. If the injuries seem to be healing then we can consider starting to wean Dr. Watson off the ventilator and medication. We’ll need to watch closely for any bacterial infections. Pneumonia is a high probability but hopefully we can catch it early and control the severity if he does contract it. Overall, he was very lucky.”

Anthea shoved a chair under Sherlock as his knees finally gave out in relief. Mycroft asked a few more questions before thanking the doctor and found out what room John was going to be moved to. Sherlock felt lightheaded at the news. John was going to be okay. Overall he was going to be okay.

Feeling the overwhelming urge to be near John as soon as humanly possible, Sherlock stood and quickly started for the hallway to find John’s room. He heard Mycroft and Anthea follow him down the winding halls until he reached the private ward. John’s room door was standing open and Sherlock could hear someone moving around inside the room. He slowed and stopped in the doorway. A nurse was moving around the bed, checking all the connections and confirming the flow rate for the drugs going to the patient. Sherlock couldn’t look at John yet, not while someone was in the room. He looked around the rest of the room and looked back at the nurse as she approached him.

“I’ll be on until twenty-three hundred. I’ll bring by the new nurse when she comes on. Please use the call button if there’s anything you need.”

Sherlock nodded and she stepped out to speak with Mycroft as well. Sherlock slowly stepped into the room towards the bed and finally looked at it; looked at the person on the bed. He made himself lock away his emotions until he could afford to release them. John’s mouth was slack around the endo tube that was taped to his face. His torso was bare and a large square of gauze was taped to his left chest over the bullet wound. His arms were riddled with IVs and monitors to evaluate his oxygen intake, blood pressure and heart rate. The sheet was pulled up to his waist and Sherlock reached out to pull the sheet up over John’s body. He was always prone to feeling cooler; why he always wore those jumpers of his. Sherlock pulled the chair over and shrugged out of his coat to hang it on the back of the chair. The scarf followed before Sherlock moved and hitched his hip up on the bed to be nearer to John. Sherlock reached out and gently brushed his thumb over John’s forehead. Sherlock leaned forward and pressed his lips to John’s forehead. The skin was cool under the detective’s lips and he kept them pressed there while tears threatened. Releasing a shuddering breath, he went back to the chair and sat to keep watch. He would watch until John woke up and he would wake up.

Two hours later John had a mild temperature. Three and a half hours later it was a raging fever from pneumonia. When Sherlock pressed a hand against John’s left lung he could feel the faint vibrations from the liquid in his lungs while he breathed. He watched as the nurse changed the bandages and replaced the empty saline bag with a new one. Sherlock drank the terrible cup of coffee the nurse brought him. After finishing the cup, he rinsed his mouth out with water and regretted drinking the coffee. He should have known how bad hospital coffee was. A short time later, Anthea appeared bearing a large to go cup and Sherlock cautious sniffed and his mouth started to water. It was a coffee from his favorite shop. He took a sip and let it flood his mouth before sliding down his throat. Holding back the moan of pleasure, he looked up to thank Anthea but found she was already gone.

That progressed for the next day or two. Fresh cups of good coffee would appear on the bedside table with occasional sandwiches or small pieces of fruit. Sometimes he would eat what was brought, most times he would ignore it. Mycroft managed to convince him to go home for a short time to shower, change and get some sleep. Sherlock had actually intended to do that but once he reached the landing he came across the coagulated pool of blood. He rushed to the loo and dry heaved, bringing up only bile. Cleaning his mouth out, Sherlock found the cleaning supplies and set to scrub out the stain. Bolts of pain were racing across his lower back by the time he was satisfied. Granted, he had stripped the first few layers of the wood off but at least the stain wasn’t visible anymore. Putting away the cleaning supplies, he took a scalding hot shower and only emerged when the hot water ran out. His skin was pink and sensitive to all the scrubbing.

Sherlock was back at John’s side an hour later and sitting under Mycroft’s glare.

“Sherlock, you need to get some rest. John wouldn’t want you doing this to yourself,” Mycroft commented and Sherlock snorted softly.

“Well then, John can bloody well wake up and tell me that himself.”

Sherlock knew he was being petulant but couldn’t stop himself. John was the one that censored Sherlock. Without John, Sherlock could be as acidic as he wanted with his comments.

Mycroft sighed and gently gripped Sherlock’s shoulder before he leaned over to speak to his brother.

“I know you are worried about John, but think how it will be while he recovers. He will be more concerned about you then he will be with recovering. You need to take care of yourself to take care of John. He will need you to be strong,” Mycroft whispered and squeezed his little brother’s shoulder.

A nurse appeared and hesitated upon seeing the two men in close conversation. Mycroft straightened and raised an eyebrow in the nurse’s direction. She blushed slightly and looked over at John.

“We are taking him for an MRI. It should only take about thirty minutes and he will be brought back here afterwards. The images should be ready thirty minutes after that,” she said and started to disconnect the power supplies.

Sherlock stood to follow but looked at his brother when Mycroft’s grip tightened. Sherlock watched as John was rolled out of the room and felt the painfully urge to follow. He didn’t want to be away from John. Needed to see him to stay calm. Once the sound from John’s bed had faded away, Mycroft pulled Sherlock up and drug him out of the room. Sherlock was so startled his followed dumbly until he realized where Mycroft was leading him. He was about to complain when he remembered Mycroft’s earlier words. He knew how John was and Mycroft was correct. John would see the state Sherlock was in and immediately worry about him, ignoring his own condition. He would harass Sherlock to eat and sleep. Sherlock followed Mycroft to the canteen and looked disheartened at the offered line of mass produced food. His lips twitched in a snarl.

Mycroft cleared his throat and Sherlock sighed before turning to look at Mycroft. He was standing next to a table with Anthea and on the table was a spread of food from; Sherlock sniffed; Angelo’s. Sherlock looked at Mycroft and saw the knowing smile. Mycroft knew Sherlock would not eat happily from the cafeteria fare so he brought food he knew Sherlock would eat. Sherlock felt a sudden surge of affection for his brother. Nodding briefly in thanks, Sherlock sat and started eating while Mycroft and Anthea quietly talked about work. They resolutely did not look or speak to Sherlock while he ate, knowing better than to interrupt once Sherlock started. Mycroft’s mobile pinged again and just like the other times, he glanced at it but instead of putting it down after reading the message, he held it and stood.

“Sherlock, we need to get back to John.”

Sherlock stared at him blankly for a brief moment before jumping to his feet and running out of the canteen. His chest tightened as he skidded around the corner and barrelled into John’s room. Two nurses were standing next to the bed while Dr. Sweeney listened to John’s lungs with a stethoscope. Sherlock’s knuckles turned white from his painful grip on the doorway as he watched the doctor. He heard Mycroft and Anthea come up behind him but he didn’t spare them a glance. The doctor sighed and looped the stethoscope around his neck as he turned.

“Ah, Mr. Holmes. A word, please.”

The nurses slipped through the door once Sherlock’s arms dropped. Sherlock stood just barely in the room and faced the doctor after glancing over at John. Gentle pressure was suddenly against Sherlock’s arm and he flinched slightly at the sensation. A glance over his shoulder showed him Mycroft standing close and offering the only support Sherlock would accept. He briefly nodded before looking back to Dr. Sweeney.

“During the MRI, Dr. Watson was struck by a pulmonary embolism. He started coughing up blood around and in his endo tube. We immediately administered heparin which did clear the clot but now we have to watch closely for any drop in blood pressure to indicate if he’s bleeding out from the lung damage or from his heart.”

The doctor hesitated before completing his statement. “This is not good news. His body is too weak to fight this as well as the infection. The strain on his heart could become too much. You should say your goodbyes in case he can’t rebound from this. The nurses will closely watch his readings at the nurse’s station but if you see any distress, please page the nurses.”

Sherlock nodded mutely and shifted aside as the doctor left the room. He slowly walked forward and pulled the chair back to the bedside and lowered himself into it while gripping John’s hand. He vaguely heard Mycroft say that he would be out in the hallway and Sherlock just nodded without looking away from John’s face. John looked grayer now; like his life was slowly slipping away. His life was slowly slipping away.

“Oh, John. What have I done?” Sherlock whispered and rubbed the back of John’s hand with his thumb.

“I did this to you.”

Sherlock turned over John’s hand and gently kissed the cool palm.

“I was bored and shot the wall...but I shot you.”

Kissed the palm that never harmed an innocent.

“Can I...you...please, John.”

The palm that calmed and soothed Sherlock’s turbulent mind. The palm that healed his hurts with gentle touches. He pressed the cool palm to his cheek and threaded his fingers through the slack ones.

“Please, John, don’t leave me.”

The palm that made him scream with pleasure. Killed a man that threatened to hurt him. Did nothing to hurt Sherlock, no matter how much trouble Sherlock created.

Sherlock lowered his head and pressed his cheek against John’s hand. He had to wait. Had to wait for John to wake up. Or wait for John to die.

 

(!)(!)(!)

 

Sherlock’s eyes snapped open and he spun in place to identify where he was. He was no longer in hospital with John. He was...in the Scottish Highlands. It was night and a fire was burning brightly in the firepit. At his back was a small cabin that John and he had rented after finishing a case. John argued that they needed a holiday after solving six cases in five days. Both of them were exhausted. Sherlock had sniffed dismissively at staying out in the Highlands with no mobile service or telly. But, grudgingly he had eventually admitted that John had the right idea. He needed to get away from the frantic buzz of London life. It was also the same place that John had revealed his feelings for Sherlock. They had made slow, tender love beside that fire. And later on in the cabin. And on the table. Tables, actually.

John was sitting, propped up against a large stone in the fire’s circle of light. He wore a pair of jeans and a jumper; he was wearing Sherlock’s favorite jumper. He was holding a wineglass of deep red liquid, which he took a sip from while staring at Sherlock. It was from a beautiful bottle of cabernet sauvignon John had brought. That bottle of cabernet sauvignon was the best wine Sherlock had ever had and what it had represented.

“John?” Sherlock whispered and saw the answering smile.

“Hello, Sherlock.”

Sherlock stumbled to John and fell to his knees beside the army doctor. He grabbed John’s face and frantically kissed him; not caring if this was a dream or nightmare or fantasy. Whatever it was, he would take it greedily and never let go. He felt John smile against his lips as Sherlock slowed his frantic kisses.

“John...John...I don-I don’t understand.”

“Sshhh, love,” John murmured and reached up with his free hand to press it over Sherlock’s hand.

“I still don’t understand.”

John smiled and used his glass holding hand to gesture around them. “Remember this place?”

Sherlock didn’t spare another glance to their surroundings. Of course he knew where they were. He was more concerned about the man in front of him.

“Of course. But why am I remembering this?” Sherlock asked as his thumbs gently rubbed against John’s cheek.

John sipped at his wine again before answering.

“This is one of your fondest memories. Your mind reverts back to it when it’s about to shut down. Like safe mode on your laptop,” John supplied and the glass of wine suddenly disappeared from his hand.

His newly empty hand reached out to wrap around Sherlock’s neck and gently pulled him forward to kiss him again. Sherlock sighed into the kiss and relaxed into the older man. John pushed back and rocked forward to rise to his knees. They were both on their knees now, torsos pressed against each other. John’s hands slid down Sherlock’s chest and then slid back up towards his shoulders to push off the heavy coat.

“Your mind has subconsciously acknowledged that I’m probably about to die. It’s saving everything it can to a permanent file. How I smell.”

Sherlock breathed in deeply. Gun oil, leather, Earl Grey, cordite. He loved that smell. It was home; it was comfort; it was acceptance. J. WATSON SMELL SAVED.

 

_I wish you freedom_

_I wish you peace_

_I wish you nights of stars that beckon you to sleep_

_I wish you heartache that leaves you more of a man_

_I wish I could be there, but I can’t_

 

John tossed aside the coat and softly spoke against Sherlock’s lips. “How I taste.”

Sherlock kissed John again and slipped his tongue into the welcoming mouth. Tongues danced against each other as Sherlock pulled John tighter against his body. He tasted of biscuits, jam and Earl Grey tea. J. WATSON TASTE SAVED.

 

_I wish you places that sit so still_

_Where people never ever change and never ever will_

_I wish I could hold you and make you understand_

_I wish I could be there, but I can’t_

 

John was slowly unbuttoning Sherlock’s shirt. He lifted Sherlock’s hand to release the cuff and kissed the inside of the delicate wrist. He did the same thing to the other wrist. Sherlock was panting heavily as arousal curled in his belly and the base of his spine. John tossed aside the shirt before shucking his owner jumper and undershirt.

“How my skin feels...against your hands...against your body.”

Sherlock wrapped one arm around John’s waist and slid it up John’s back. His other hand slid up his chest and rested on the scar tissue. The skin was warm and firm over the muscles. Muscles that flexed and shifted under Sherlock’s hands and fingertips. Hidden strength and power. J. WATSON FEEL SAVED.

 

I _wish you wisdom_

_I wish you years_

_I wish you armies to conquer all your fears_

_I wish you courage for all that life demands_

_I wish I could be there, but I can’t_

 

John’s hands slid down to Sherlock’s trousers and quickly loosened the belt to cast it aside. He quickly unfastened the trousers and pushed them down Sherlock’s thighs along with his pants. Sherlock gasped and held his breath as John wrapped a hand around Sherlock’s cock.

“How I sound when we make love.”

Sherlock quickly had John out of his clothing and had him laying out under Sherlock’s body. The flickering fire cast shadows over the dips and planes of John’s body. Sherlock kissed down John’s body and ignored the tears that were falling from his eyes onto John’s tan body. The moans from John’s lips were scorching flames down Sherlock’s spine. Sherlock would mouth ‘love you’ against the skin between kisses, as the palm of his free hand was stroking down John’s outer thigh. Beside him appeared a bottle of lube and Sherlock didn’t hesitate. He quickly coated his fingers and knelt between John’s spread thighs.

“Please,” John whispered and reached out to brush aside a tear from Sherlock’s blue-grey eyes.

Sherlock slid a long finger inside John as he wrapped his mouth around John’s cock. John moaned Sherlock’s name and it was beautiful. Sherlock’s long finger brushed against John’s prostate and he felt the resultant thrash. Another finger was added as Sherlock deep throated John. Fingers carded through Sherlock’s curls and gently tugged. Heeding the unspoken request, Sherlock kissed up John’s body and nestled himself between the trembling thighs. He pressed his forearms against the dirt on either side of John’s head so their torsos were flush against each other and their faces were close.

“I love you,” John murmured as Sherlock pressed the tip of his cock to John’s entrance.

Sherlock’s bottom lip wavered threateningly before he leaned forward and pressed a kiss to John’s lips. “I love you too.”

Sherlock’s hips slid forward and he eased into John’s willing body with a choked cry. Both men froze as they savored the delicious sensation and heat. Sherlock could feel John’s pounding heartbeat as he lowered his head to press against John’s neck. John’s hands were stroking up and down Sherlock’s back and would occasionally squeeze or rub in various spots. Sherlock’s hips shifted back before sliding forward again. John arched against him and his hands dug into Sherlock’s back. Sherlock knew it wasn’t going to be long.

“I’m sorry, John. I’m so sorry,” Sherlock whispered as his hips slid deeper into his lover.

John was panting in lust and painful arousal. His cock was hard between the two men but this wasn’t about John. The smell of their mating permeated Sherlock’s mind and with it followed the thought. ‘This will be the last time with John.’ Sherlock slipped a hand between their bodies and grasped John’s cock. With a few pulls and a few tears, Sherlock felt John tense and then scream as he orgasmed. The wildly fluttering muscles set Sherlock off and a sobbing scream slipped from his lips as he thrust one last hard time into John and stilled. The orgasm raced through him, exploding from the base of his spine out to his fingertips and toes. J. WATSON SAVED.

 

_There are rhymes and there are reasons_

_And times when nothing stayed the same_

_But you know my love still remains_

_I wish we were together_

_I wish I was home_

_I wish there were nights where I was never alone_

_I know I’ve said it but I’ll say it once again_

_I wish I could be there, but I can’t_

Sherlock collapsed on top of John and gently pressed a kiss against the scarred tissue at his shoulder. Instead of warm flesh under his lips, he felt nothing.

“Our time here is almost done, Sherlock. You’re starting to wake up,” John whispered as he kissed the top of Sherlock’s head.

“No, no. I can’t live without you, John. Please. Don’t leave me, please,” Sherlock sobbed and clutched tighter against the cooling body under him.

John hummed quietly and softly kissed the shell of Sherlock’s ear. “I wish I could be there, but I can’t.”

John disappeared from under Sherlock and all that was left was a cabin, a fire and a destroyed consulting detective. Sherlock Holmes never followed normal convention. He didn’t rail or scream at the unfairness of his life and the loss of his lover. He whimpered and dug his fingers into the dirt.

“John...take me with you.”

 

(!)(!)(!)

 

Sherlock gasped and his eyes popped open to quickly dilate in reaction to the room’s overhead lights. His gaze immediately locked onto the bed and its occupant. Heartbeat was steady but weak; pressure was low. Dangerously low. Sherlock tightened his grip on John’s hand and gently raised it to kiss. He sighed deeply before lowering the hand back to the bed. The dream was fresh in his mind. Normally, he forgot all about his dreams but this one...this one he would cherish and cling to.

“During...during the time I was gone, I thought of you constantly. You were in my dreams and when I was awake. I heard your voice whispering to eat and sleep; to keep myself healthy so I could come back to you. I made so many promises to myself concerning you. Promise to take you less for granted. To make you laugh more. To make you smile more. To never make you grieve again. To never grieve over me because…”

Sherlock took a shaky breath and felt tears well in his eyes. He didn’t care if they fell anymore; he was beyond caring. The only person that loved and accepted him for who he was was about to die. Die by his own careless hand. Tears were the least of his concerns. He took a deep breath to continue.

“To not grieve over me because I’m not worth it. I’m not worth any of it. I’m...not worthy of you, John. I never was. You are so much better than me.”

Sherlock tightened his grip on John’s hand and leaned back in his chair to stare up at the ceiling. They had never spoken about his time away. It was too difficult for John to stay detached and objective. Sherlock could only do it because he had lived it and had three years to come to terms. His mind was surprisingly clear and non encumbered by the normal racing thoughts and ideas that usually crowded his mind.

“You always look for the good in people; believe in the good of people. I could never do that. I’ve seen too much of the bad. But then I met you. You...you were different. You saw the good in me that I thought was no longer there. You brought the good in me out. You made me want to be better. Better for you,” Sherlock murmured and rubbed his thumb over John’s hand.

“I also promised to never leave your side again. To never be taken away. But that doesn’t mean you can leave. We’re supposed to stay together; go through everything together. All the hardships that we seem to attract. But you’re trying to leave me now. You’re trying to go where I can’t follow.”

The tears were trickling silently down Sherlock’s temples and disappearing into his curly hair.

“Don’t go where I can’t follow you, John. Please, don’t leave me alone. Don’t go where I can’t follow because...I will find a way to follow you, John. I will find you. I won’t let you go again,” Sherlock murmured and lifted his head to lean forward to rest his elbows beside John’s hips.

He stared up at John’s lax face and felt a strange calmness fall over him.

 

(!)(!)(!)

 

Sherlock stood silently like a sentinel in the corner as he watched the people move around his lover. Mycroft had taken it upon himself to notify John’s closest friends and sister that he might be passing away. The word had spread like a wildfire. Sherlock never knew how many people valued John; the number of people coming by were staggering. The number of people John helped. Sherlock curled in on himself. John Watson, the unsung hero. The short man living in Sherlock Holmes’ shadow. Fellow doctors came by. NSY staff and inspectors came by. A large handful of the Homeless Network. None spared Sherlock a glance and he was glad for that.

Sherlock fingered the syringe in his pocket. It hadn’t been hard to find the drugs he needed. They were in a hospital. He knew where the cameras were located and the procedures they used. It was a deadly mixture of potassium chloride and pancuronium. A strong paralytic to put him down and enough potassium chloride to stop his heart. He’d feel it. He’d feel his heart slow, stutter and stop; the mental and physical agony of his body trying to breath and live yet unable. Sherlock would die when John died; he just had to stop his transport.

The stream of visitors stopped when visiting hours ended. The nurses had given up trying to make Sherlock follow the rules. Sherlock remained in the shadows of the room with the window at his back. His shadow was cast on the tile floor as a bolt of lighting outside lit up the window. A moment later the vibration from the thunder danced through the pane of glass and to his back. Sherlock turned his head and glanced over his shoulder at the rain the was streaming down the window pane. His gaze followed the trails of water before turning to look back at the bed and its occupant.

The fever had dropped just a little to indicate the antibiotics had started working but it might have been too little too late. John’s body was too weak to continue fighting. He was relying solely on the mechanical ventilation to breath. The last brain scan was not promising. He might have lost too much blood. Sherlock sighed and looked at the doorway when a figure appeared. He didn’t have the energy to glare at Mycroft as the elder Holmes entered the room and looked from the bed to the window.

“Any change?”

Sherlock shook his head. Mycroft opened his mouth to say something but alarms started sounding. Sherlock was frozen as he stared at the heart monitor beside John’s bed. Staff flooded the room and Sherlock stumbled towards the bed. Mycroft intercepted him and held him back as he watched the heart rate decrease. They started shocking John’s body as Sherlock struggled against Mycroft’s grip.

The doctor held open John’s eyelid and flashed a penlight to check the reaction. Sherlock saw him shake his head sadly.

“No! John! Don’t do this!” Sherlock yelled and felt Mycroft flinched at the volume of Sherlock’s voice.

The doctor looking at John’s pupils tensed and narrowed his gaze before looking over his shoulder at Sherlock.

“Yell at him again.”

Sherlock didn’t hesitate. “John! You better listen to me, you berk! Don’t you dare do this to me! I came back for you! You better come back for me or I’ll never forgive you!”

The heart monitor started to slowly register a steady rhythm.

“You love it when I do nice things for other people! Now, please, please, do this for me! Please, come back to me, John!” Sherlock sobbed and ignored everyone else in the room as he stared at his lover.

The doctor standing over John nodded encouragingly and moved his stethoscope over John’s chest. Sherlock shrugged out of Mycroft’s grip and hurried to John’s bedside as he wiped away his tears.

“If you die, I will burn all your jumpers. I will do experiments all over the flat. I’ll call every one of your ex-girlfriends and tell them sordid details about our sex life.”

John’s heart rate increased marginally at that and Sherlock latched onto the hope that John could hear him. “I’ll tell Judith your secret ingredient for your berry tart.”

Sherlock continued to threaten, beg, bargain, plead and cajole as John’s readings started to improve. The panic started to fade as Sherlock gripped John’s hand and held it tightly as he continued to talk. The doctor ordered a brain scan as Sherlock hitched a hip onto the edge of the bed and continued to talk. John’s outward appearance never changed but physically he was reacting to Sherlock’s words. John’s lungs were struggling to work but they were struggling. Dr. Sweeney motioned Mycroft to follow him and they stepped out of the room.

“I don’t know how to explain it but Dr. Watson is reacting to Mr. Holmes’ voice. All of his numbers have improved.”

“I’m sure my brother has spoken to Dr. Watson since he’s been here. What’s changed now?” Mycroft questioned and glanced back into the room at Sherlock who was still talking.

Dr. Sweeney shrugged. “Maybe Dr. Watson couldn’t hear him the first times. We don’t know what it’s like for someone in a coma. It might be that Mr. Holmes’ yell penetrated to Dr. Watson’s subconscious level. Gave him something to latch onto possibly.”

Mycroft tapped the tip of his umbrella on the floor for several moments before sighing. “My brother will believe that as well. You might need to provide Sherlock with some throat spray because I doubt he’ll be quiet from now on. Thank you, Dr. Sweeney.”

The doctor nodded and walked down the hallway, leaving Mycroft to stand in the doorway of the room. He looked into the room and watched as Sherlock continued to talk to his lover. It was going to be a long night.

 

(!)(!)(!)

 

Two days later, Sherlock was still talking and hadn’t moved from the bedside. HIs voice was hoarse and raspy but he wouldn’t give up. If his voice was what was keeping John tethered to this world then he wouldn’t stop. John was showing signs of starting to wake up. The endo tube was removed a few hours earlier and he now wore a face mask. His lungs were getting stronger and color was starting to come back to John’s face.

Sherlock flexed his hand around John’s lax fingers and rubbed his face with his free hand. “Back in Siena, when you were going after Bricks, in that square. Despite everything you did and were doing...I couldn’t believe you were mine. That you wanted me.”

Sherlock reached for the throat spray Dr Sweeney had given him and took some quickly before continuing.

“It only made me want you more.

“Have I ever told you that I love watching you make tea? You’re the only person I know that leaves the tea bag in while they pour the milk in. Then you mix it before squeezing out the bag. You say squeezing the bag gets the best mixture.”

Sherlock chuckled weakly. “Look at me. Sherlock Holmes getting choked up remembering you making tea.”

He released a shuddering breath and swallowed painfully. He lowered his head and pressed his forehead against John’s thigh.

“I love your eyes and how much emotion I can read in them. I can see the pain when I cause it, I can see the pride when I do something right, the sarcasm when you’re making fun of me when I do something stupid and silly. Yes, I do stupid things. Usually, I can cover them up and no one would know but you...you always see. You always see me. It’s annoying...but endearing. Knowing that there is someone I don’t have to hide from. Someone who sees me for me,” Sherlock rasped and bumped his nose against the blanket covered thigh.

“Please, John...see me again,” he whispered and closed his eyes against the tears.

A gentle hand brushed against his riotous curls and his head jerked up. The hand fell limply to John’s lap and Sherlock was pinned by a pair of blue eyes. He stared blankly as the hand slowly moved to drag down the breathing mask. Sherlock was silent, wondering if he was dreaming; imagining this. The mask barely cleared John’s lips before the lips twitched in a weak smile.

“I’ll...alwa...ways see...you...you...wan...ker.”

A high pitched giggle escaped Sherlock’s lips as the euphoria surged through him. He moved to sit on the edge of the bed and slowly leaned forward to gently kiss John’s dry lips. He also punched the nurse call button as he shifted to nuzzle against John’s jaw and breath him in. The hand resting on John’s chest was covered by John’s free hand and tears slipped down Sherlock’s cheeks.

“Thank you...thank you for coming back to me, John,” Sherlock whispered.

“I...heard...you...yell...at me. Gave...me...som-something...to latch...onto. Love...your voice,” John murmured, his eyelids drooping.

Sherlock smiled through the tears and heard the nurses enter the room.

“Love you,” he whispered against the shell of John’s ear.

Another weak smile. “Love...you.”

Sherlock’s wish came true.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The song is ‘Gavin’s Song’ by Marc Broussard.


End file.
